**» 


^ 


B  E  A  L  B  Y 


A  HOLIDAY 


BT 

H.    G.  WELLS 

AUTHOR   OF    "the    WIFE    OP   SIB 
ISAAC    HABMAN,"    ETC. 


THE  MACMILLAN   COMPANY 
1915 

AU  rights  reeerved 


COPTEIGHT,   1914,   BY   P.    F.    COLLIEE  &  SoW. 


coptbight,  1915, 
By  H.   G.   wells. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.     Published  March,  1915. 

Reprinted  jviarch,  1915.    April,  1&1& 
May,  1915.    July,  1915.     August,    1915. 


c      c 


CONTENTS 

OHAPTEB 
I. 

PAGE 

Young  Bealby  goes  to  Shonts        .        .        .        1 

n. 

A  Week-End  at  Shonts     . 

.      22 

III. 

The  Wanderers  .... 

.      56 

IV. 

The  Unobtrusive  Parting 

.      95 

V. 

The  Seeking  of  Bealby    . 

131 

VI. 

Bealby  and  the  Tramp 

190 

VII. 

The  Battle  of  Crayminster    . 

.    226 

VIII. 

How  Bealby  Explained     . 

( 

263 

427040 


BE  ALB  Y 


>  • 


»  •     > 


•  *.   >    J     »  a 


BEALBY 

CHAPTER  I 

YOUNG  BEALBY  GOES  TO  SHONTS 

§1 

The  cat  is  the  offspring  of  a  cat  and  the  dog 
of  a  dog;  but  butlers  and  lady^s  maids  do  not 
reproduce  their  kind.     They  have  other  duties. 

So  their  successors  have  to  be  sought  among 
the  proHfic,  and  particularly  among  the  prolific 
on  great  estates.  Such  are  gardeners,  but  not 
under-gardeners,  gamekeepers,  and  coachmen  — 
but  not  lodge  people,  because  their  years  are  too 
great  and  their  lodges  too  small.  And  among 
those  to  whom  this  opportunity  of  entering  ser- 
vice came  was  young  Bealby,  who  was  the  stepson 
of  Mr.  Darling,  the  gardener  of  Shonts. 

Everyone  knows  the  glories  of  Shonts.  Its 
fagade.  Its  two  towers.  The  great  marble  pond. 
The  terraces  where  the  peacocks  walk  and  the 
lower  lake  with  the  black  and  white  swans.  The 
great  park  and  the  avenue.  The  view  of  the 
river  winding  away  across  the  blue  country. 
And  of  the  Shonts  Velasquez  —  but  that  is  now 
in  America.     And  the  Shonts  Rubens,  which  is 


IB'  :  BEALBY 

in  the  National  Gallery.  And  the  Shonts  por- 
celain. And  the  Shonts  past  history;  it  was  a 
refuge  for  the  old  faith ;  it  had  priest's  holes  and 
secret  passages.  And  how  at  last  the  Marquis 
had  to  let  Shonts  to  the  Laxtons  —  the  Pep- 
tonized Milk  and  Baby  Soother  people  —  for  a 
long  term  of  years.  It  was  a  splendid  chance  for 
any  boy  to  begin  his  knowledge  of  service  in  so 
great  an  establishment,  and  only  the  natural 
perversity  of  human  nature  can  explain  the  violent 
objection  young  Bealby  took  to  anything  of  the 
sort.  He  did.  He  said  he  did  not  want  to  be  a 
servant;  and  that  he  would  not  go  and  be  a  good 
boy  and  try  his  very  best  in  that  state  of  life  to 
which  it  had  pleased  God  to  call  him  at  Shonts. 
On  the  contrary. 

He  communicated  these  views  suddenly  to  his 
mother  as  she  was  preparing  a  steak  and  kidney 
pie  in  the  bright  little  kitchen  of  the  gardener's 
cottage*  He  came  in  with  his  hair  all  ruffled  and 
his  face  hot  and  distinctly  dirty,  and  his  hands 
in  his  trousers  pockets  in  the  way  he  had  been 
repeatedly  told  not  to. 

"Mother/'  he  said,  "I'm  not  going  to  be  a 
steward's  boy  at  the  house  anyhow,  not  if  you 
tell  me  to,  not  till  you're  blue  in  the  face.  So 
that's  all  about  it." 

This  delivered,  he  remained  panting,  having  no 
further  breath  left  in  him. 

His  mother  was  a  thin  firm  woman.  She 
paused  in  her  rolling  of  the  dough  until  he  had 
finished,  and  then  she  made  a  strong  broadening 
sweep  of  the  rolling  pin,  and  remained  facing  him, 


YOUNG  BEALBY  GOES  TO  SHONTS       3 

leaning  forward  on  that  implement  with  her  head 
a  little  on  one  side. 

"You  will  do/'  she  said,  "whatsoever  your 
father  has  said  you  will  do.'' 

"'E  isn't  my  father,"  said  young  Bealby. 

His  mother  gave  a  snapping  nod  of  the  head 
expressive  of  extreme  determination. 

"Anyhow  I  ain't  going  to  do  it,"  said  young 
Bealby,  and  feeling  the  conversation  was  difficult 
to  sustain  he  moved  towards  the  staircase  door 
with  a  view  to  slamming  it. 

"You'll  do  it,"  said  his  mother,  "right  enough." 

"You  see  whether  I  do,"  said  young  Bealby, 
and  then  got  in  his  door-slam  rather  hurriedly 
because  of  steps  outside. 

Mr.  Darling  came  in  out  of  the  sunshine  a  few 
moments  later.  He  was  a  large,  many-pocketed, 
earthy-whiskered  man  with  a  clean-shaven  de- 
termined mouth,  and  he  carried  a  large  pale 
cucumber  in  his  hand. 

"I  tole  him,"  he  said. 

"What  did  he  say?"  asked  his  wife. 

"Nuthin',"  said  Mr.  Darling. 

"'E  says  'e  won't,"  said  Mrs.  DarHng. 

Mr.  DarHng  regarded  her  thoughtfully  for  a 
moment. 

"I  never  see  such  a  boy,"  said  Mr.  Darling. 
"Why  — 'e's^oUo." 

§2 

But  young  Bealby  maintained  an  obstinate 
fight  against  the  inevitable. 

He  had  no  gift  of  lucid  exposition.     "I  ain't 


4  BEALBY 

going  to  be  a  servant/'  he  said.  "  I  don't  see  what 
right  people  have  making  a  servant  of  me." 

''You  got  to  be  something/'  said  Mr.  Darhng. 

"Everybody's  got  to  be  something/'  said  Mrs. 
Darhng. 

"Then  let  me  be  something  else/'  said  young 
Bealby. 

"/  dessay  you'd  like  to  be  a  gentleman/'  said 
Mr.  Darhng. 

"I  wouldn't  mind/'  said  young  Bealby. 

"You  got  to  be  what  your  opportunities  give 
you/'  said  Mr.  Darling. 

Young  Bealby  became  breathless.  "Why 
shouldn't  I  be  an  engine  driver?"  he  asked. 

"All  oily/'  said  his  mother.  "And  getting 
yourself  killed  in  an  accident.  And  got  to  pay 
fines.     You'd  like  to  be  an  engine  driver." 

"Or  a  soldier." 

"Oo!— a  Swaddy!"  said  Mr.  Darling  de- 
cisively. 

"Or  the  sea." 

"With  that  weak  stummik  of  yours/'  said  Mrs. 
Darling. 

"Besides  which/'  said  Mr.  Darling,  "it's  been 
arranged  for  you  to  go  up  to  the  'ouse  the  very 
first  of  next  month.  And  your  box  and  everything 
ready." 

Young  Bealby  became  very  red  in  the  face. 
"I  won't  go/'  he  said  very  faintly. 

"You  will/'  said  Mr.  Darling,  "if  I  'ave  to 
take  you  by  the  collar  and  the  slack  of  your 
breeches  to  get  you  there." 


YOUNG  BEALBY  GOES  TO  SHONTS       5 

§3 

The  heart  of  young  Bealby  was  a  coal  of  fire 
within  his  breast  as  —  unassisted  —  he  went 
across  the  dewy  park  up  to  the  great  house, 
whither  his  box  was  to  follow  him. 

He  thought  the  world  a  "rotten  show." 

He  also  said,  apparently  to  two  does  and  a 
fawn,  "If  you  think  I'm  going  to  stand  it,  you 
know,  you're  JOLLY-well  mistaken." 

I  do  not  attempt  to  justify  his  prejudice  against 
honourable  usefulness  in  a  domestic  capacity. 
He  had  it.  Perhaps  there  is  something  in  the 
air  of  Highbury,  where  he  had  spent  the  past 
eight  years  of  his  life,  that  leads  to  democratic 
ideals.  It  is  one  of  those  new  places  where  es- 
tates seem  almost  forgotten.  Perhaps  too  there 
was  something  in  the  Bealby  strain.  .  .  . 

I  think  he  would  have  objected  to  any  employ- 
ment at  all.  Hitherto  he  had  been  a  remarkably 
free  boy  with  a  considerable  gusto  about  his  free- 
dom. Why  should  that  end  ?  The  little  village 
mixed  school  had  been  a  soft  job  for  his  Cockney 
wits,  and  for  a  year  and  a  half  he  had  been  top 
boy.     Why  not  go  on  being  top  boy  ? 

Instead  of  which,  under  threats,  he  had  to  go 
across  the  sunlit  corner  of  the  park,  through 
that  slanting  morning  sunlight  which  had  been 
so  often  the  prelude  to  golden  days  of  leafy  wan- 
derings !  He  had  to  go  past  the  corner  of  the 
laundry  where  he  had  so  often  played  cricket 
with  the  coachman's  boys  (already  swallowed 
up  into  the  working  world),  he  had  to  follow  the 


6  BEALBY 

laundry  wall  to  the  end  of  the  kitchen,  and  there, 
where  the  steps  go  down  and  underground,  he 
had  to  say  farewell  to  the  sunlight,  farewell  to 
childhood,  bo^^hood,  freedom.  He  had  to  go  down 
and  along  the  stone  corridor  to  the  pantry,  and 
there  he  had  to  ask  for  ]\Ir.  Mergleson.  He 
paused  on  the  top  step  and  looked  up  at  the  blue 
sky  across  which  a  hawk  was  slowly  drifting. 
His  eyes  followed  the  hawk  out  of  sight  beyond  a 
cypress  bough,  but  indeed  he  was  not  thinking 
about  the  hawk,  he  was  not  seeing  the  hawk; 
he  was  struggling  with  a  last  wild  impulse  of  his 
ferial  nature.  '^^Miy  not  sling  it?''  his  ferial 
nature  was  asking.  '^^Vhy  not  even  now  —  do 
a  bunk?'' 

It  would  have  been  better  for  him  perhaps 
and  better  for  Mr.  Mergleson  and  better  for 
Shonts  if  he  had  yielded  to  the  whisper  of  the 
Tempter.  But  his  heart  was  hea\y  within  him, 
and  he  had  no  lunch.  And  never  a  penny.  One 
can  do  but  a  very  little  bunk  on  an  empty  belly  ! 
"  Must "  was  written  all  over  liim.  He  went  down 
the  steps. 

The  passage  was  long  and  cool  and  at  the  end 
of  it  was  a  swing  door.  Tlirough  that  and  then 
to  the  left,  he  knew  one  had  to  go,  past  the  still- 
room  and  so  to  the  pantry.  Tlie  maids  were  at 
breakfast  in  the  stillroom  with  the  door  open. 
Tlie  grimace  he  made  in  passing  was  intended 
rather  to  entertain  than  to  insult,  and  anyhow  a 
chap  must  do  something  with  his  face.  And  then 
he  came  to  the  pantry  and  into  the  presence  of 
Mr.  Mergleson. 


YOUNG  BEALBY  GOES  TO  SHONTS   7 

Mr.  Merglcson  was  in  his  shirt-sleeves  and 
generally  dishevelled,  having  an  early  cup  of  tea 
in  an  atmosphere  full  of  the  bleak  memories  of 
overnight.  He  was  an  ample  man  with  a  large 
nose,  a  vast  under  lip  and  mutton-chop  side-whisk- 
ers. His  voice  would  have  suited  a  succulent 
parrot.  He  took  out  a  gold  watch  from  his  waist- 
coat pocket  and  regarded  it.  ^'Ten  minutes  past 
seven,  young  man,"  he  said,  ^' isn't  seven  o'clock.'' 

Young  Bealby  made  no  articulate  answer. 

"Just  stand  there  for  a  minute/'  said  ]\Ir. 
Mergleson,  "and  when  Fm  at  libbuty  I'll  run 
through  your  duties."  And  almost  ostenta- 
tioush^  he  gave  himself  up  to  the  enjoyment  of 
his  cup  of  tea. 

Three  other  gentlemen  in  deshabille  sat  at 
table  with  Mr.  Mergleson.  The}^  regarded  young 
Bealb}"  with  attention,  and  the  youngest,  a  red- 
haired,  barefaced  youth  in  shirt-sleeves  and  a 
green  apron  was  moved  to  a  grimace  that  was 
clearly  designed  to  echo  the  scowl  on  young 
Bealby 's  features. 

The  fury  that  had  been  subdued  by  a  momen- 
tary awe  of  Mr.  Mergleson  revived  and  gathered 
force.  Young  Bealby 's  face  became  scarlet,  his 
eyes  filled  with  tears  and  his  mind  with  the  need 
for  movement.  After  all, — he  wouldn't  stand  it. 
He  turned  round  abruptly  and  made  for  the  door. 

"Wliere'n  earth  you  going  to?"  cried  Mr. 
Mergleson. 

"He's  shy!"  cried  the  second  footman. 

"Stead}'  on!"  cried  the  first  footman  and  had 
him  by  the  shoulder  in  the  doorway. 


8  BEALBY 


a 


Lemme  go!^^  howled  the  new  recruit,  strug- 
gling.   "I  won't  be  a  blooming  servant.    I  won't." 

^^Here!''  cried  Mr.  Mergleson,  gesticulating 
with  his  teaspoon,  ''bring  'im  to  the  end  of  the 
table  there.  What's  this  about  a  blooming 
servant?" 

Bealby,  suddenly  blubbering,  was  replaced  at 
the  end  of  the  table. 

"May  I  ask  what's  this  about  a  blooming  ser- 
vant?" asked  Mr.  Mergleson. 

Sniff  and  silence. 

"Did  I  understand  you  to  say  that  you  ain't 
going  to  be  a  blooming  servant,  young  Bealby?" 

"Yes,"  said  young  Bealby. 

"Thomas,"  said  Mr.  Mergleson,  "just  smack 
'is  'ed.     Smack  it  rather  'ard.  ..." 

Things  too  rapid  to  relate-  occurred.  "So 
you'd  hite,  would  you?"  said  Thomas.  .  .  . 

"Ah!"  said  Mr.  Mergleson.  "Go^im!  That 
one!"  .  .  . 

"Just  smack  'is  'ed  once  more,"  said  Mr. 
Mergleson.  .  .  . 

"And  now  you  just  stand  there,  young  man, 
until  I'm  at  libbuty  to  attend  to  you  further," 
said  Mr.  Mergleson,  and  finished  his  tea  slowly 
and  eloquently.  .  .  . 

The  second  footman  rubbed  his  shin  thought- 
fully. 

"If  I  got  to  smack  'is  'ed  much,"  he  said,  "'e'd 
better  change  into  his  slippers." 

"Take  him  to  'is  room,"  said  Mr.  Mergleson 
getting  up.  "See  'e  washes  the  grief  and  grubbi- 
ness off  'is  face  in  the  handwash  at  the  end  of 


YOUNG  BEALBY  GOES  TO  SHONTS   9 

the  passage  and  make  him  put  on  his  slippers. 
Then  show  'im  'ow  to  lay  the  table  in  the  steward's 


room/' 


§4 


The  duties  to  which  Bealby  was  introduced 
struck  him  as  perplexingly  various,  undesirably 
numerous,  uninteresting  and  difficult  to  remember, 
and  also  he  did  not  try  to  remember  them  very 
well  because  he  wanted  to  do  them  as  badly  as 
possible  and  he  thought  that  forgetting  would  be 
a  good  way  of  starting  at  that.  He  was  beginning 
at  the  bottom  of  the  ladder ;  to  him  it  fell  to  wait 
on  the  upper  servants,  and  the  green  baize  door 
at  the  top  of  the  service  staircase  was  the  limit 
of  his  range.  His  room  was  a  small  wedge-shaped 
apartment  under  some  steps  leading  to  the  ser- 
vants' hall,  lit  by  a  window  that  did  not  open  and 
that  gave  upon  the  underground  passage.  He 
received  his  instructions  in  a  state  of  crumpled 
mutinousness,  but  for  a  day  his  desire  to  be  re- 
markably impossible  was  more  than  counter- 
balanced by  his  respect  for  the  large  able  hands  of 
the  four  man  servants,  his  seniors,  and  by  a  dis- 
inclination to  be  returned  too  promptly  to  the 
gardens.  Then  in  a  tentative  manner  he  broke 
two  plates  and  got  his  head  smacked  by  Mr. 
Mergleson  himself.  Mr.  Mergleson  gave  a  stac- 
cato slap  quite  as  powerful  as  Thomas's  but  other- 
wise different.  The  hand  of  Mr.  Mergleson  was 
large  and  fat  and  he  got  his  effects  by  dash, 
Thomas's  was  horny  and  lingered.  After  that 
young  Bealby  put  salt  in  the  teapot  in  which  the 


10  BEALBY 

housekeeper  made  tea.  But  that  he  observed  she 
washed  out  with  hot  water  before  she  put  in  the 
tea.  It  was  clear  that  he  had  wa^ed  his  salt, 
which  ought  to  have  gone  into  the  kettle. 

Next  time,  —  the  kettle. 

Beyond  telling  him  his  duties  almost  excessively 
nobody  conversed  with  young  Bealby  during  the 
long  hours  of  his  first  day  in  service.  At  midday 
dinner  in  the  servants'  hall,  he  made  one  of  the 
kitchen-maids  giggle  by  pulling  faces  intended 
to  be  delicately  suggestive  of  Mr.  Mergleson,  but 
that  was  his  nearest  approach  to  disinterested 
human  intercourse. 

When  the  hour  for  retirement  came,  —  "Get 
out  of  it.  Go  to  bed,  you  dirty  little  Kicker,'' 
said  Thomas.  "We've  had  about  enough  of  you 
for  one  day"  —  young  Bealby  sat  for  a  long  time 
on  the  edge  of  his  bed  weighing  the  possibilities 
of  arson  and  poison.  He  wished  he  had  some 
poison.  Some  sort  of  poison  with  a  medieval 
manner,  poison  that  hurts  before  it  kills.  Also 
he  produced  a  small  penny  pocket-book  with  a 
glazed  black  cover  and  blue  edges.  He  headed 
one  page  of  this  "Mergleson"  and  entered  be- 
neath it  three  black  crosses.  Then  he  opened  an 
account  to  Thomas,  who  was  manifestly  destined 
to  be  his  principal  creditor.  Bealby  was  not  a 
forgiving  boy.  At  the  village  school  they  had 
been  too  busy  making  him  a  good  Churchman  to 
attend  to  things  like  that.  There  were  a  lot  of 
crosses  for  Thomas. 

And  while  Bealby  made  these  sinister  memo- 
randa   downstairs    Lady    Laxton  —  for    Laxton 


YOUNG  BEALBY  GOES  TO  SHONTS      11 

had  bought  a  baronetcy  for  twenty  thousand  down 
to  the  party  funds  and  a  tip  to  the  whip  over  the 
Peptonized  Milk  flotation  —  Lady  Laxton,  a 
couple  of  floors  above  Bealby's  rufiied  head  mused 
over  her  approaching  week-end  party.  It  was  an 
important  week-end  party.  The  Lord  Chancellor 
of  England  was  coming.  Never  before  had  she 
had  so  much  as  a  member  of  the  Cabinet  at  Shonts. 
He  was  coming,  and  do  what  she  would  she  could 
not  help  but  connect  it  with  her  very  strong  desire 
to  see  the  master  of  Shonts  in  the  clear  scarlet  of 
a  Deputy  Lieutenant.  Peter  would  look  so  well 
in  that.  The  Lord  Chancellor  was  coming,  and 
to  meet  him  and  to  circle  about  him  there  were 
Lord  John  Woodenhouse  and  Slinker  Bond, 
there  were  the  Countess  of  Barracks  and  Mrs. 
Rampound  Pilby,  the  novelist,  with  her  husband 
Rampound  Pilby,  there  was  Professor  Timbre, 
the  philosopher,  and  there  were  four  smaller 
(though  quite  good)  people  who  would  run  about 
very  satisfactorily  among  the  others.  (At  least 
she  thought  they  would  run  about  very  satis- 
factorily amongst  the  others,  not  imagining  any 
evil  of  her  cousin  Captain  Douglas.) 

All  this  good  company  in  Shonts  filled  Lady 
Laxton  with  a  pleasant  realization  of  progressive 
successes  but  at  the  same  time  one  must  confess 
that  she  felt  a  certain  diffidence.  In  her  heart  of 
hearts  she  knew  she  had  not  made  this  party. 
It  had  happened  to  her.  How  it  might  go  on 
happening  to  her,  she  did  not  know,  it  was  beyond 
her  control.  She  hoped  very  earnestly  that  every- 
thing would  pass  oS  well. 


13  BEALBY 

The  Lord  Chancellor  was  as  big  a  guest  as  any 
she  had  had.  One  must  grow  as  one  grows,  but 
still,  —  being  easy  and  friendly  with  him  would 
be,  she  knew,  a  tremendous  effort.  Rather 
like  being  easy  and  friendly  with  an  elephant. 
She  was  not  good  at  conversation.  The  task  of 
interesting  people  taxed  her  and  puzzled  her.  .  .  . 

It  was  Slinker  Bond,  the  whip,  who  had  arranged 
the  whole  business  —  after,  it  must  be  confessed, 
a  hint  from  Sir  Peter.  Laxton  had  complained 
that  the  government  were  neglecting  this  part  of 
the  country.  "They  ought  to  show  up  more  than 
they  do  in  the  county,"  said  Sir  Peter,  and  added 
almost  carelessly,  "I  could  easily  put  anybody  up 
at  Shonts."  There  were  to  be  two  select  dinner 
parties  and  a  large  but  still  select  Sunday  lunch 
to  let  in  the  countryside  to  the  spectacle  of 
the  Laxtons  taking  their  (new)  proper  place  at 
Shonts.  .  .  . 

It  was  not  only  the  sense  of  her  own  deficiencies 
that  troubled  Lady  Laxton ;  there  were  also  her 
husband's  excesses.  He  had  —  it  was  no  use  dis- 
guising it  —  rather  too  much  the  manner  of  an 
employer.  He  had  a  way  of  getting,  how  could 
one  put  it?  —  confident  at  dinner  and  Mergleson 
seemed  to  delight  in  filling  up  his  glass.  Then  he 
would  contradict  a  good  deal.  .  .  .  She  felt 
that  Lord  Chancellors  however  are  the  sort  of  men 
one  doesn't  contradict.  .  .  . 

Then  the  Lord  Chancellor  was  said  to  be  in- 
terested in  philosophy  —  a  difficult  subject.  She 
had  got  Timbre  to  talk  to  him  upon  that.  Timbre 
was  a  professor  of  philosophy  at  Oxford,  so  that 


YOUNG  BEALBY  GOES  TO  SHONTS      13 

was  sure  to  be  all  right.  But  she  wished  she  knew 
one  or  two  good  safe  things  to  say  in  philosophy 
herself.  She  had  long  felt  the  need  of  a  secretary, 
and  now  she  felt  it  more  than  ever.  If  she  had  a 
secretary,  she  could  just  tell  him  what  it  was  she 
wanted  to  talk  about  and  he  could  get  her  one  or 
two  of  the  right  books  and  mark  the  best  passages 
and  she  could  learn  it  all  up. 

She  feared  —  it  was  a  worrying  fear  —  that 
Laxton  would  say  right  out  and  very  early  in  the 
week-end  that  he  didn^t  believe  in  philosophy. 
He  had  a  way  of  saying  he  ^^ didn't  believe  in" 
large  things  like  that,  —  art,  philanthropy,  novels, 
and  so  on.  Sometimes  he  said,  "I  don't  believe 
in  all  this"  —  art  or  whatever  it  was.  She  had 
watched  people's  faces  when  he  had  said  it  and 
she  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  saying  you 
don't  believe  in  things  isn't  the  sort  of  thing  people 
say  nowadays.  It  was  wrong,  somehow.  But 
she  did  not  want  to  tell  Laxton  directly  that  it  was 
wrong.  He  would  remember  if  she  did,  but  he  had 
a  way  of  taking  such  things  rather  badly  at  the 
time.  .  .  .     She  hated  him  to  take  things  badly. 

"If  one  could  invent  some  little  hint,"  she 
whispered  to  herself. 

She  had  often  wished  she  was  better  at  hints. 

She  was,  you  see,  a  gentlewoman,  modest, 
kindly.  Her  people  were  quite  good  people. 
Poor,  of  course.  But  she  was  not  clever,  she  was 
anything  but  clever.  And  the  wives  of  these 
captains  of  industry  need  to  be  very  clever  indeed 
if  they  are  to  escape  a  magnificent  social  isolation. 
They  get  the  titles  and  the  big  places  and  all  that 


U  BEALBY 

sort  of  thing ;  people  don^t  at  all  intend  to  isolate 
them,  but  there  is  nevertheless  an  inadvertent 
avoidance.  .  .  . 

Even  as  she  uttered  these  words,  "If  one 
could  invent  some  little  hint,"  Bealby  down  there 
less  than  forty  feet  away  through  the  solid  floor 
below  her  feet  and  a  little  to  the  right  was  wetting 
his  stump  of  pencil  as  wet  as  he  could  in  order  to 
ensure  a  sufficiently  emphatic  fourteenth  cross  on 
the  score  sheet  of  the  doomed  Thomas.  Most  of 
the  other  thirteen  marks  were  done  with  such 
hard  breathing  emphasis  that  the  print  of  them 
went  more  than  halfway  through  that  little  blue- 
edged  book. 

§5 

The  arrival  of  the  week-end  guests  impressed 
Bealby  at  first  merely  as  a  blessed  influence  that 
withdrew  the  four  men-servants  into  that  unknown 
world  on  the  other  side  of  the  green  baize  door, 
but  then  he  learnt  that  it  also  involved  the  appear- 
ance of  five  new  persons,  two  valets  and  three 
maids,  for  whom  places  had  to  be  laid  in  the 
steward's  room.  Otherwise  Lady  Laxton's  social 
arrangements  had  no  more  influence  upon  the 
mind  of  Bealby  than  the  private  affairs  of  the 
Emperor  of  China.  There  was  something  going 
on  up  there,  beyond  even  his  curiosity.  All  he 
heard  of  it  was  a  distant  coming  and  going  of 
vehicles  and  some  slight  talk  to  which  he  was 
inattentive  while  the  coachman  and  grooms  were 
having  a  drink  in  the  pantry  —  until  these  maids 
and  valets  appeared.     They  seemed  to  him  to 


YOUNG  BEALBY  GOES  TO  SHONTS      15 

appear  suddenly  out  of  nothing,  like  slugs  after 
rain,  black  and  rather  shiny,  sitting  about  in- 
actively and  quietly  consuming  small  matters. 
He  disliked  them,  and  they  regarded  him  without 
affection  or  respect. 

Who  cared?  He  indicated  his  feeling  towards 
them  as  soon  as  he  was  out  of  the  steward's  room 
by  a  gesture  of  the  hand  and  nose  venerable  only 
by  reason  of  its  antiquity. 

He  had  things  more  urgent  to  think  about  than 
strange  valets  and  maids.  Thomas  had  laid 
hands  on  him,  jeered  at  him,  inflicted  shameful 
indignities  on  him  and  he  wanted  to  kill  Thomas 
in  some  frightful  manner.  (But  if  possible  un- 
obtrusively.) 

If  he  had  been  a  little  Japanese  boy,  this  would 
have  been  an  entirely  honourable  desire.  It 
would  have  been  Bushido  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing.  In  the  gardener's  stepson  however  it  is  — 
undesirable.  .  .  . 

Thomas,  on  the  other  hand,  having  remarked 
the  red  light  of  revenge  in  Bealby's  eye  and  being 
secretly  afraid,  felt  that  his  honour  was  concerned 
in  not  relaxing  his  persecutions.  He  called  him 
"Kicker"  and  when  he  did  not  answer  to  that 
name,  he  called  him  "Snorter,"  "Bleater, " 
"Snooks,"  and  finally  tweaked  his  ear.  Then  he 
saw  fit  to  assume  that  Bealby  was  deaf  and  that 
ear-tweaking  was  the  only  available  method  of 
address.  This  led  on  to  the  convention  of  a  sign 
language  whereby  ideas  were  communicated  to 
Bealby  by  means  of  painful  but  frequently  quite 
ingeniously    symbolical    freedoms    with   various 


16  BEALBY 

parts  of  his  person.  Also  Thomas  affected  to 
discover  uncleanliness  in  Bealby's  head  and  suc- 
ceeded after  many  difficulties  in  putting  it  into 
a  sinkful  of  lukewarm  water. 

Meanwhile  young  Bealby  devoted  such  scanty 
time  as  he  could  give  to  reflection  to  debating 
whether  it  is  better  to  attack  Thomas  suddenly 
with  a  carving  knife  or  throw  a  lighted  lamp. 
The  large  pantry  inkpot  of  pewter  might  be  effec- 
tive in  its  way,  he  thought,  but  he  doubted  whether 
in  the  event  of  a  charge  it  had  sufficient  stopping 
power.  He  was  also  curiously  attracted  by  a 
long  two-pronged  toasting-fork  that  hung  at  the 
side  of  the  pantry  fireplace.     It  had  reach.  .  .  . 

Over  all  these  dark  thoughts  and  ill-concealed 
emotions  Mr.  Mergleson  prevailed,  large  yet 
speedy,  speedy  yet  exact,  parroting  orders  and 
making  plump  gestures,  performing  duties  and 
seeing  that  duties  were  performed. 

Matters  came  to  a  climax  late  on  Saturday 
night  at  the  end  of  a  trying  day,  just  before  Mr. 
Mergleson  went  round  to  lock  up  and  turn  out 
the  lights. 

Thomas  came  into  the  pantry  close  behind 
Bealby,  who,  greatly  belated  through  his  own  in- 
efficiency, was  carrying  a  tray  of  glasses  from  the 
steward's  room,  applied  an  ungentle  hand  to  his 
neck,  and  ruffled  up  his  back  hair  in  a  smart  and 
painful  manner.  At  the  same  time  Thomas  re- 
marked, "Burrrrh!'' 

Bealby  stood  still  for  a  moment  and  then  put 
down  his  tray  on  the  table  and,  making  peculiar 
sounds  as  he  did  so,  resorted  very  rapidly  to  the 


YOUNG  BEALBY  GOES  TO  SHONTS      17 

toasting  fork.  ...  He  got  a  prong  into  Thomas's 
chin  at  the  first  prod. 

How  swift  are  the  changes  of  the  human  soul ! 
At  the  moment  of  his  thrust  young  Bealby  was  a 
primordial  savage ;  so  soon  as  he  saw  this  in- 
credible piercing  of  Thomas's  chin  —  for  all  the 
care  that  Bealby  had  taken  it  might  just  as  well 
have  been  Thomas's  eye  —  he  moved  swiftly 
through  the  ages  and  became  a  simple  Christian 
child.     He  abandoned  violence  and  fled. 

The  fork  hung  for  a  moment  from  the  visage  of 
Thomas  like  a  twisted  beard  of  brass,  and  then 
rattled  on  the  ground. 

Thomas  clapped  his  hand  to  his  chin  and 
discovered  blood. 

"You  little  — !''  He  never  found  the  right 
word  (which  perhaps  is  just  as  well) ;  instead  he 
started  in  pursuit  of  Bealby. 

Bealby  —  in  his  sudden  horror  of  his  own  act  — 
and  Thomas  fled  headlong  into  the  passage  and 
made  straight  for  the  service  stairs  that  went  up 
into  a  higher  world.  He  had  little  time  to  think. 
Thomas  with  a  red-smeared  chin  appeared  in 
pursuit.  Thomas  the  avenger.  Thomas  really 
roused.  Bealby  shot  through  the  green  baize 
door  and  the  pursuing  footman  pulled  up  only 
Just  in  time  not  to  follow  him. 

Only  just  in  time.  He  had  an  instinctive  instant 
anxious  fear  of  great  dangers.  He  heard  some- 
thing, a  sound  as  though  the  young  of  some  very 
large  animal  had  squeaked  feebly.  He  had  a 
ghmpse  of  something  black  and  white  —  and 
large.  .  .  . 


18  BEALBY 

Then  something,  some  glass  thing,  smashed. 

He  steadied  the  green  baize  door  which  was 
wobbling  on  its  brass  hinges,  controlled  his  panting 
breath  and  listened. 

A  low  rich  voice  was  —  ejaculating.  It  was 
not  Bealby's  voice,  it  was  the  voice  of  some  sub- 
stantial person  being  quietly  but  deeply  angry. 
They  were  the  ejaculations  restrained  in  tone  but 
not  in  quality  of  a  ripe  and  well-stored  mind,  — 
no  boy's  thin  stuff. 

Then  very  softly  Thomas  pushed  open  the 
door  —  just  widely  enough  to  see  and  as  instantly 
let  it  fall  back  into  place. 

Very  gently  and  yet  with  an  alert  rapidity  he 
turned  about  and  stole  down  the  service  stairs. 

His  superior  officer  appeared  in  the  passage 
below. 

"Mr.  Mergleson,''  he  cried,  "I  say  — Mr. 
Mergleson." 

^'What's  up?"  said  Mr.  Mergleson. 

^^ He's  gone!" 

^^Who?" 

^^Bealby." 

^'  Home  ?  "     This  almost  hopefully. 

^^No." 

^^  Where?" 

'^Up  there  !     I  think  he  ran  against  somebody." 

Mr.  Mergleson  scrutinized  his  subordinate's  face 
for  a  second.  Then  he  listened  intently;  both 
men  listened  intently. 

"Have  to  fetch  him  out  of  that,"  said  Mr. 
Mergleson,  suddenly  preparing  for  brisk  activity. 

Thomas  bent  lower  over  the  banisters. 


YOUNG  BEALBY  GOES  TO  SHONTS      19 

"The  Lord  Chancellor V^  he  whispered  with 
white  lips  and  a  sideways  gesture  of  his  head.] 

"What  about  'im?^'  said  Mergleson,  arrested  by 
something  in  the  manner  of  Thomas. 

Thomas's  whisper  became  so  fine  that  Mr. 
Mergleson  drew  nearer  to  catch  it  and  put  up  a 
hand  to  his  ear.  Thomas  repeated  the  last 
remark.  "He's  just  through  there  —  on  the  land- 
ing —  cursing  and  swearing  —  'orrible  things  — 
more  like  a  mad  turkey  than  a  human  being." 

"Where's  Bealby?'' 

"He  must  almost  'ave  run  into  'im/'  said 
Thomas  after  consideration. 

"But  now  —  where  is  he?" 

Thomas  pantomimed  infinite  perplexity. 

Mr.  Mergleson  reflected  and  decided  upon  his 
line.  He  came  up  the  service  staircase,  lifted  his 
chin  and  with  an  air  of  meek  officiousness  went 
through  the  green  door.  There  was  no  one  now 
on  the  landing,  there  was  nothing  remarkable 
on  the  landing  except  a  broken  tumbler,  but  half- 
way up  the  grand  staircase  stood  the  Lord  Chan- 
cellor. Under  one  arm  the  great  jurist  carried  a 
soda  water  syphon  and  he  grasped  a  decanter  of 
whisky  in  his  hand.  He  turned  sharply  at  the 
sound  of  the  green  baize  door  and  bent  upon  Mr. 
Mergleson  the  most  terrible  eyebrows  that  ever, 
surely !  adorned  a  legal  visage.  He  was  very  red 
in  the  face  and  savage-looking. 

"Was  it  youj'^  he  said  with  a  threatening  ges- 
ture of  the  decanter,  and  his  voice  betrayed  a 
noble  indignation,  "Was  it  you  who  slapped  me 
behind?" 


20  BEALBY 

"Slapped  you  behind;  me  lord?'' 

"Slapped  me  behind.  Don't  I  speak  — 
plainly?" 

"I  —  such  a  libbuty,  me  lord !" 

"Idiot!    I  ask  you  a  plain  question  —  " 

With  almost  inconceivable  alacrity  Mr.  Mergle- 
son  rushed  up  three  steps,  leapt  forward  and 
caught  the  syphon  as  it  slipped  from  his  lord- 
ship's arm. 

He  caught  it,  but  at  a  price.  He  overset  and, 
clasping  it  in  his  hands,  struck  his  lordship  first 
with  the  syphon  on  the  left  shin  and  then  butted 
him  with  a  face  that  was  still  earnestly  respectful 
in  the  knees.  His  lordship's  legs  were  driven 
sideways,  so  that  they  were  no  longer  beneath  his 
centre  of  gravity.  With  a  monosyllabic  remark 
of  a  topographical  nature  his  lordship  collapsed 
upon  Mr.  Mergleson.  The  decanter  flew  out  of 
his  grasp  and  smashed  presently  with  emphasis 
upon  the  landing  below.  The  syphon,  escaping 
from  the  wreckage  of  Mr.  Mergleson  and  drawn  no 
doubt  by  a  natural  affinity,  rolled  noisily  from 
step  to  step  in  pursuit  of  the  decanter.  .  .  . 

It  was  a  curious  little  procession  that  hurried 
down  the  great  staircase  of  Shonts  that  night. 
First  the  whisky  like  a  winged  harbinger  with  the 
pedestrian  syphon  in  pursuit.  Then  the  great 
lawyer  gripping  the  great  butler  by  the  tails  of 
his  coat  and  punching  furiously.  Then  Mr. 
Mergleson  trying  wildly  to  be  respectful  —  even 
in  disaster.  First  the  Lord  Chancellor  dived  over 
Mr.  Mergleson,  grappling  as  he  passed,  then  Mr. 
Mergleson,  attempting  explanations,  was  pulled 


YOUNG  BEALBY  GOES  TO  SHONTS   21 

backwards  over  the  Lord  Chancellor ;  then  again 
the  Lord  Chancellor  was  for  a  giddy  but  vindictive 
moment  uppermost ;   a  second  rotation  and  they 
reached  the  landing. 
Bang !    There  was  a  deafening  report  — 


CHAPTER  II 

A  WEEK-END  AT  SHONTS 

§1 

The  week-end  visit  is  a  form  of  entertainment 
peculiar  to  Great  Britain.  It  is  a  thing  that  could 
have  been  possible  only  in  a  land  essentially  aris- 
tocratic and  mellow,  in  which  even  the  observance 
of  the  sabbath  has  become  mellow.  At  every 
London  terminus  on  a  Saturday  afternoon  the 
outgoing  trains  have  an  unusually  large  proportion 
of  first  class  carriages,  and  a  peculiar  abundance 
of  rich-looking  dressing-bags  provoke  the  covetous 
eye.  A  discreet  activity  of  valets  and  maids 
mingles  with  the  stimulated  alertness  of  the 
porters.  One  marks  celebrities  in  gay  raiment. 
There  is  an  indefinable  air  of  distinction  upon 
platform  and  bookstall.  Sometimes  there  are 
carriages  reserved  for  especially  privileged  parties. 
There  are  greetings. 

"And  so  you  are  coming  too  !" 

"No;  this  time  it  is  Shonts." 

''  The  place  where  they  found  the  Rubens.  Who 
has  it  now?^'  .  .  . 

Through  this  cheerfully  prosperous  throng 
went  the  Lord  Chancellor  with  his  high  nose, 
those  eyebrows  of  his  which  he  seemed  to  be  able 

22 


A  WEEK-END  AT  SHONTS  23 

to  furl  or  unfurl  at  will  and  his  expression  of 
tranquil  self-sufficiency.  He  was  going  to  Shonts 
for  his  party  and  not  for  his  pleasure,  but  there 
was  no  reason  why  that  should  appear  upon  his 
face.  He  went  along  preoccupied,  pretending  to 
see  nobody,  leaving  to  others  the  disadvantage  of 
the  greeting.  In  his  right  hand  he  carried  a 
small  important  bag  of  leather.  Under  his  left 
arm  he  bore  a  philosophical  work  by  Doctor 
MacTaggart,  three  illustrated  papers,  the  Fort- 
nightly Review,  the  day's  Times,  the  Hibhert 
Journal,  Punch  and  two  blue  books.  His  Lord- 
ship never  quite  knew  the  limits  set  to  what  he 
could  carry  under  his  arm.  His  man,  Candler, 
followed  therefore  at  a  suitable  distance  with 
several  papers  that  had  already  been  dropped, 
alert  to  retrieve  any  further  losses. 

At  the  large  bookstall  they  passed  close  by  Mrs. 
Kampound  Pilby  who,  according  to  her  custom, 
was  feigning  to  be  a  member  of  the  general  public 
and  was  asking  the  clerk  about  her  last  book. 
The  Lord  Chancellor  saw  Rampound  Pilby  hover- 
ing at  hand  and  deftly  failed  to  catch  his  eye.  He 
loathed  the  Rampound  Pilbys.  He  speculated 
for  a  moment  what  sort  of  people  could  possibly 
stand  Mrs.  Pilby's  vast  pretensions  —  even  from 
Saturday  to  Monday.  One  dinner  party  on  her 
right  hand  had  glutted  him  for  lifeu  He  chose  a 
corner  seat,  took  possession  of  both  it  and  the 
seat  opposite  it  in  order  to  have  somewhere  to 
put  his  feet,  left  Candler  to  watch  over  and  pack  in 
his  hand  luggage  and  went  high  up  the  platform, 
remaining  there  with  his  back  to  the  world  — 


24  BEALBY 

rather  like  a  bigger  more  aquiline  Napoleon  —  in 
order  to  evade  the  great  novelist. 

In  this  he  was  completely  successful. 

He  returned  however  to  find  Candler  on  the 
verge  of  a  personal  conflict  with  a  very  fair  young 
man  in  grey.  He  was  so  fair  as  to  be  almost  an 
albino,  except  that  his  eyes  were  quick  and  brown ; 
he  was  blushing  the  brightest  pink  and  speaking 
very  quickly. 

"These  two  places/'  said  Candler,  breathless 
with  the  badness  of  his  case,  "are  engaged." 

"Oh  Ye-very  well/'  said  the  very  fair  young  man 
with  his  eyebrows  and  moustache  looking  very 
pale  by  contrast,  "have  it  so.  But  do  permit  me 
to  occupy  the  middle  seat  of  the  carriage.  With 
a  residuary  interest  in  the  semi-gentleman's  place." 

"You  little  know,  young  man,  whom  you  are 
calling  a  semi-gentleman,"  said  Candler,  whose 
speciality  was  grammar. 

"Here  he  is  !"  said  the  young  gentleman. 

"Which  place  will  you  have,  my  Lord?" 
asked  Candler,  abandoning  his  case  altogether. 

"Facing,"  said  the  Lord  Chancellor  slowly  un- 
furling the  eyebrows  and  scowling  at  the  young 
man  in  grey. 

"Then  I'll  have  the  other,"  said  the  very  fair 
young  man  talking  very  glibly.  He  spoke  with 
a  quick  low  voice,  like  one  who  forces  himself 
to  keep  going.  "You  see,"  he  said,  addressing 
the  great  jurist  with  the  extreme  familiarity  of 
the  courageously  nervous,  "I've  gone  into  this 
sort  of  thing  before.  First,  mind  you,  I  have  a  far 
look  for  a  vacant  corner.     I'm  not  the  sort  to  spoil 


A  WEEK-END  AT  SHONTS  25 

sport.  But  if  there  isn't  a  vacant  corner  I  look 
for  traces  of  a  semi-gentleman.  A  semi-gentleman 
is  one  who  has  a  soft  cap  and  not  an  umbrella  — 
his  friend  in  the  opposite  seat  has  the  umbrella  — 
or  he  has  an  umbrella  and  not  a  soft  cap,  or  a  water- 
proof and  not  a  bag,  or  a  bag  and  not  a  waterproof. 
And  a  half  interest  in  a  rug.  That's  what  I  call 
a  semi-gentleman.  You  see  the  idea.  Sort  of 
divided  beggar.     Nothing  in  any  way  offensive." 

"Sir/'  said  the  Lord  Chancellor,  interrupting 
in  a  voice  of  concentrated  passion,  "I  don't  care 
a  rap  what  you  call  a  semi-gentleman.  Will 
you  get  out  of  my  way?" 

"Just  as  you  please,"  said  the  very  fair  young 
gentleman,  and  going  a  few  paces  from  the  carriage 
door  he  whistled  for  the  boy  with  the  papers. 
He  was  bearing  up  bravely. 

^^Pink  ^unf^^  said  the  very  fair  young  gentle- 
man almost  breathlessly.  ^^ Black  and  White. 
What's  all  these  others?  Athenceum?  Sporting 
and  Dramatic?  Right  0.  And  —  Eh  !  What? 
Do  I  look  the  sort  that  buys  a  Spectator?  You 
don't  know !  My  dear  boy,  where's  your  savoir 
fairef'^ 

§2 

The  Lord  Chancellor  was  a  philosopher  and  not 
easily  perturbed.  His  severe  manner  was  con- 
sciously assumed  and  never  much  more  than  skin- 
deep.  He  had  already  furled  his  eyebrows  and 
dismissed  his  vis-a-vis  from  his  mind  before  the 
train  started.  He  turned  over  the  Hibbert  Journal, 
and  read  in  it  with  a  large  tolerance. 


26  BEALBY 

Dimly  on  the  outskirts  of  his  consciousness 
the  very  -  fair  young  man  hovered,  as  a  trifling 
annoyance,  as  something  pink  and  hot  rustling 
a  sheet  of  a  discordant  shade  of  pink,  as  something 
that  got  in  the  way  of  his  legs  and  whistled  softly 
some  trivial  cheerful  air,  just  to  show  how  little  it 
cared.  Presently,  very  soon,  this  vague  trouble 
would  pass  out  of  his  consciousness  altogether.  .  .  . 

The  Lord  Chancellor  was  no  mere  amateur  of 
philosophy.  His  activities  in  that  direction  were 
a  part  of  his  public  reputation.  He  lectured  on 
religion  and  aesthetics.  He  was  a  fluent  Hegelian. 
He  spent  his  holidays,  it  was  understood,  in  the 
Absolute  —  at  any  rate  in  Germany.  He  would 
sometimes  break  into  philosophy  at  dinner  tables 
and  particularly  over  the  desert  and  be  more  lumi- 
nously incomprehensible  while  still  apparently 
sober,  than  almost  anyone.  An  article  in  the 
Hibbert  caught  and  held  his  attention.  It  at- 
tempted to  define  a  new  and  doubtful  variety  of 
Infinity.  You  know,  of  course,  that  there  are 
many  sorts  and  species  of  Infinity,  and  that  the 
Absolute  is  just  the  king  among  Infinities  as  the 
lion  is  king  among  the  Beasts.  .  .  . 

"I  say,"  said  a  voice  coming  out  of  the  world  of 
Relativity  and  coughing  the  cough  of  those  who 
break  a  silence,  "you  aren't  going  to  Shonts,  are 
you?'' 

The  Lord  Chancellor  returned  slowly  to  earth. 

"Just  seen  your  label,"  said  the  very  fair  young 
man.     "You  see,  —  Fm  going  to  Shonts." 

The  Lord  Chancellor  remained  outwardly  serene. 
He  reflected  for  a  moment.     And  then  he  fell  into 


A  WEEK-END  AT  SHONTS  27 

that  snare  which  is  more  fatal  to  great  lawyers 
and  judges  perhaps  than  to  any  other  class  of 
men,  the  snare  of  the  crushing  repartee.  One 
had  come  into  his  head  now,  —  a  beauty. 

"Then  we  shall  meet  there/ ^  he  said  in  his 
suavest  manner. 

"Well  — rather." 

"It  would  be  a  great  pity,"  said  the  Lord  Chan- 
cellor with  an  effective  blandness,  using  a  kind 
of  wry  smile  that  he  employed  to  make  things 
humorous,  "it  would  be  a  great  pity,  don't  you 
think,  to  anticipate  that  pleasure." 

And  having  smiled  the  retort  well  home  with 
his  head  a  little  on  one  side,  he  resumed  with 
large  leisurely  movements  the  reading  of  his 
Hihhert  Journal. 

"Got  me  there,"  said  the  very  fair  young  man 
belatedly,  looking  boiled  to  a  turn,  and  after  a 
period  of  restlessness  settled  down  to  an  impatient 
perusal  of  Black  and  White. 

"There's  a  whole  blessed  week-end  of  course," 
the  young  man  remarked  presently  without  looking 
up  from  his  paper  and  apparently  pursuing  some 
obscure  meditations.  ... 

A  vague  uneasiness  crept  into  the  Lord  Chan- 
cellor's mind  as  he  continued  to  appear  to  peruse. 
Out  of  what  train  of  thought  could  such  a  remark 
arise?  His  weakness  for  crushing  retort  had  a 
little  betrayed  him.  .  .  . 

It  was,  however,  only  when  he  found  himself 
upon  the  platform  of  Chelsome,  which  as  everyone 
knows  is  the  station  for  Shonts,  and  discovered 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Rampound  Pilby  upon  the  platform, 


28  BEALBY 

looking  extraordinarily  like  a  national  monument 
and  its  custodian,  that  the  Lord  Chancellor, 
began  to  realize  that  he  was  in  the  grip  of  fate, 
and  that  the  service  he  was  doing  his  party  by 
week-ending  with  the  Laxtons  was  likely  to  be  not 
simply  joyless  'but  disagreeable. 

Well,  anyhow,  he  had  MacTaggart,  and  he  could 
always  work  in  his  own  room.  .  .  . 

,     §3 

By  the  end  of  dinner  the  Lord  Chancellor  was 
almost  at  the  end  of  his  large  but  clumsy  endur- 
ance ;  he  kept  his  eyebrows  furled  only  by  the  most 
strenuous  relaxation  of  his  muscles,  and  within 
he  was  a  sea  of  silent  blasphemies.  All  sorts  of 
little  things  had  accumulated.  .  .  . 

He  exercised  an  unusual  temperance  with  the 
port  and  old  brandy  his  host  pressed  upon  him, 
feeling  that  he  dared  not  relax  lest  his  rage  had  its 
way  with  him.  The  cigars  were  quite  intelligent 
at  any  rate,  and  he  smoked  and  listened  with  a 
faintly  perceptible  disdain  to  the  conversation  of 
the  other  men.  At  any  rate  Mrs.  Rampound 
Pilby  was  out  of  the  room.  The  talk  had  arisen 
out  of  a  duologue  that  had  preceded  the  departure 
of  the  ladies,  a  duologue  of  Timbre's,  about  ap- 
paritions and  the  reality  of  the  future  life.  Sir 
Peter  Laxton,  released  from  the  eyes  of  his  wife, 
was  at  liberty  to  say  he  did  not  believe  in  all  this 
stuff ;  it  was  just  thought  transference  and  fancy 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  His  declaration  did 
not  arrest  the  flow  of  feeble  instances  and  experi- 


A  WEEK-END  AT  SHONTS  29 

ences  into  which  such  talk  invariably  degenerates. 
His  Lordship  remained  carelessly  attentive,  his 
eyebrows  unfurled  but  drooping,  his  cigar  upward 
at  an  acute  angle ;  he  contributed  no  anecdotes, 
content  now  and  then  to  express  himself  com- 
pactly by  some  brief  sentence  of  pure  HegeHan  — 
much  as  a  Mahometan  might  spit. 

"Why!  come  to  that,  they  say  Shonts  is 
haunted,^'  said  Sir  Peter.  "I  suppose  we  could 
have  a  ghost  here  in  no  time  if  I  chose  to  take  it  on. 
Rare  place  for  a  ghost,  too.^' 

The  very  fair  young  man  of  the  train  had  got 
a  name  now  and  was  Captain  Douglas.  When 
he  was  not  blushing  too  brightly  he  was  rather 
good  looking.  He  was  a  distant  cousin  of  Lady 
Laxton's.  He  impressed  the  Lord  Chancellor  as 
unabashed.  He  engaged  people  in  conversation 
with  a  cheerful  familiarity  that  excluded  only 
the  Lord  Chancellor,  and  even  at  the  Lord  Chan- 
cellor he  looked  ever  and  again.  He  pricked  up 
his  ears  at  the  mention  of  ghosts,  and  afterwards 
when  the  Lord  Chancellor  came  to  think  things 
over,  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  caught  a 
curious  glance  of  the  Captain^s  bright  little  brown 
eye. 

"  What  sort  of  ghost.  Sir  Peter  ?  Chains  ?  Eh  ? 
No?'' 

"Nothing  of  that  sort,  it  seems.  I  don't  know 
much  about  it,  I  wasn't  sufficiently  interested. 
No,  sort  of  spook  that  bangs  about  and  does  you 
a  mischief.     What's  its  name?     Plundergeist?" 

"Poltergeist,"  the  Lord  Chancellor  supplied 
carelessly  in  the  pause. 


80  BEALBY 

"Runs  its  hand  over  your  hair  in  the  dark. 
Taps  your  shoulder.  All  nonsense.  But  we 
don^t  tell  the  servants.  Sort  of  thing  I  don^t  be- 
lieve in.  Easily  explained, — what  with  panelling 
and  secret  passages  and  priests'  holes  and  all  that." 

^^ Priests'  holes!"     Douglas  was  excited. 

"Where  they  hid.  Perfect  rabbit  warren. 
There's  one  going  out  from  the  drawing-room 
alcove.  Quite  a  good  room  in  its  way.  But  you 
know/'  —  a  note  of  wrath  crept  into  Sir  Peter's 
voice,  — "  they  didn't  treat  me  fairly  about 
these  priests'  holes.  I  ought  to  have  had  a  sketch 
and  a  plan  of  these  priests'  holes.  When  a  chap 
is  given  possession  of  a  place,  he  ought  to  be  given 
possession.  Well !  I  don't  know  where  half  of 
them  are  myself.  That's  not  possession.  Else 
we  might  refurnish  them  and  do  them  up  a  bit. 
I  guess  they're  pretty  musty." 

Captain  Douglas  spoke  with  his  eye  on  the  Lord 
Chancellor.  "Sure  there  isn't  a  murdered  priest 
in  the  place,  Sir  Peter?"  he  asked. 

" Nothing  of  the  sort,"  said  Sir  Peter.  " I  don't 
believe  in  these  priests'  holes.  Half  of  'em 
never  had  priests  in  'em.  It's  all  pretty  tidy 
rot  I  expect  —  come  to  the  bottom  of  it.  .  .  . " 

The  conversation  did  not  get  away  from  ghosts 
and  secret  passages  until  the  men  went  to  the 
drawing-room.  If  it  seemed  likely  to  do  so  Cap- 
tain Douglas  pulled  it  back.  He  seemed  to  delight 
in  these  silly  particulars ;  the  sillier  they  were 
the  more  he  was  delighted. 

The  Lord  Chancellor  was  a  little  preoccupied 
by  one  of  those  irrational  suspicions  that  will 


A  WEEK-END  AT  SHONTS  31 

sometimes  afflict  the  most  intelligent  of  men. 
Why  did  Douglas  want  to  know  all  the  particulars 
about  the  Shonts  ghosts?  Why  every  now  and 
then  did  he  glance  with  that  odd  expression  at 
one's  face,  —  a  glance  half  appealing  and  half 
amused.  Amused !  It  was  a  strange  fancy, 
but  the  Lord  Chancellor  could  almost  have  sworn 
that  the  young  man  was  laughing  at  him.  At 
dinner  he  had  had  that  feeling  one  has  at  times 
of  being  talked  about ;  he  had  glanced  along  the 
table  to  discover  the  Captain  and  a  rather  plain 
woman,  that  idiot  Timbre's  wife  she  probably 
was,  with  their  heads  together  looking  up  at  him 
quite  definitely  and  both  manifestly  pleased  by 
something  Douglas  was  telling  her.  .  .  . 

What  was  it  Douglas  had  said  in  the  train? 
Something  like  a  threat.  But  the  exact  words 
had  slipped  the  Lord  Chancellor's  memory.  .  .  . 

The  Lord  Chancellor's  preoccupation  was  just 
sufficient  to  make  him  a  little  unwary.  He 
drifted  into  grappling  distance  of  Mrs.  Rampound 
Pilby.  Her  voice  caught  him  like  a  lasso  and 
drew  him  in. 

"Well,  and  how  is  Lord  Moggeridge  now?"  she 
asked. 

What  on  earth  is  one  to  sby  to  such  an  im- 
pertinence ? 

She  was  always  like  that.  She  spoke  to  a  man 
of  the  calibre  of  Lord  Bacon  as  though  she  was 
speaking  to  a  schoolboy  home  for  the  holidays. 
She  had  an  invincible  air  of  knowing  all  through 
everybody.  It  gave  rather  confidence  to  her  work 
than  charm  to  her  manner. 


32  BEALBY 

"Do  you  still  go  on  with  your  philosophy?" 
she  said. 

"No/'  shouted  the  Lord  Chancellor,  losing  all 
self-control  for  the  moment  and  waving  his  eye- 
brows about  madly,  "no,  I  go  o^  with  it." 

"For  your  vacations?  Ah,  Lord  Moggeridge, 
how  I  envy  you  great  lawyers  your  long  vacations. 
/  —  never  get  a  vacation.  Always  we  poor 
authors  are  pursued  by  our  creations,  sometimes 
it's  typescript,  sometimes  it's  proofs.  Not  that 
I  really  complain  of  proofs.  I  confess  to  a  weak- 
ness for  proofs.  Sometimes,  alas !  it's  criticism. 
Such  undiscerning  criticisral  ..." 

The  Lord  Chancellor  began  to  think  very 
swiftly  of  some  tremendous  lie  that  would  enable 
him  to  escape  at  once  without  incivility  from 
Lady  Laxton's  drawing-room.  Then  he  perceived 
that  Mrs.  Rampound  Pilby  was  asking  him ; 
"Is  that  the  Captain  Douglas,  or  his  brother, 
who's  in  love  with  the  actress  woman?" 

The  Lord  Chancellor  made  no  answer.  What 
he  thought  was  "  Great  Silly  Idiot !  How  should 
/know?" 

"I  think  it  must  be  the  one,  —  the  one  who  had 
to  leave  Portsmouth  in  disgrace  because  of  the  rag- 
ging scandal.  He  did  nothing  there,  they  say,  but 
organize  practical  jokes.  Some  of  them  were  quite 
subtle  practical  jokes.  He's  a  cousin  of  our  host- 
ess ;  that  perhaps  accounts  for  his  presence.  .  .  ." 

The  Lord  Chancellor's  comment  betrayed  the 
drift  of  his  thoughts.  "He'd  better  not  try  that 
sort  of  thing  on  here,"  he  said.  "I  abominate  — 
clowning.' 


yy 


A  WEEK-END  AT  SHONTS  33 

Drawing-room  did  not  last  very  long.  Even 
Lady  Laxton  could  not  miss  the  manifest  gloom  of 
her  principal  guest,  and  after  the  good-nights 
and  barley  water  and  lemonade  on  the  great 
landing  Sir  Peter  led  Lord  Moggeridge  by  the 
arm  —  he  hated  being  led  by  the  arm  —  into  the 
small  but  still  spacious  apartment  that  was  called 
the  study.  The  Lord  Chancellor  was  now  very 
thirsty ;  he  was  not  used  to  abstinence  of  any  sort ; 
but  Sir  Peter's  way  of  suggesting  a  drink  roused 
such  a  fury  of  resentment  in  him  that  he  refused 
tersely  and  conclusively.  There  was  nobody  else 
in  the  study  but  Captain  Douglas,  who  seemed  to 
hesitate  upon  the  verge  of  some  familiar  address, 
and  Lord  Woodenhouse,  who  was  thirsty,  too, 
and  held  a  vast  tumbler  of  whisky  and  soda, 
with  a  tinkle  of  ice  in  it,  on  his  knee  in  a  way 
annoying  to  a  parched  man.  The  Lord  Chan- 
cellor helped  himself  to  a  cigar  and  assumed  the 
middle  of  the  fireplace  with  an  air  of  contentment, 
but  he  could  feel  the  self-control  running  out  of 
the  heels  of  his  boots. 

Sir  Peter,  after  a  quite  unsuccessful  invasion 
of  his  own  hearthrug  —  the  Lord  Chancellor 
stood  like  a  rock  —  secured  the  big  armchair, 
stuck  his  feet  out  towards  his  distinguished  guest 
and  resumed  a  talk  that  he  had  been  holding  with 
Lord  Woodenhouse  about  firearms.  Mergleson 
had  as  usual  been  too  attentive  to  his  master's 
glass,  and  the  fine  edge  was  off  Sir  Peter's  defer- 
ence. "I  always  have  carried  firearms,"  he  said, 
"and  I  always  shall.  Used  properly  they  are  a 
great  protection.    Even  in  the  country  how  are 


34  BEALBY 

you  to  know  who  you^re  going  to  run  up  against 
—  anywhen?'^ 

"But  you  might  shoot  and  hit  something," 
said  Douglas. 

"Properly  used,  I  said  —  properly  used.  Whip- 
ping out  a  revolver  and  shooting  at  sl  man,  that's 
not  properly  used.  Almost  as  bad  as  pointing 
it  at  him  —  which  is  pretty  certain  to  make  him 
fly  straight  at  you.  If  he's  got  an  ounce  of 
pluck.  But  /  said  properly  used  and  I  mean 
properly  used." 

The  Lord  Chancellor  tried  to  think  about  that 
article  on  Infinities,  while  appearing  to  listen  to 
this  fooFs  talk.  He  despised  revolvers.  Armed 
with  such  eyebrows  as  his  it  was  natural  for  him 
to  despise  revolvers. 

"Now,  I've  got  some  nice  little  barkers  up- 
stairs," said  Sir  Peter.!  "I'd  almost  welcome 
a  burglar,  just  to  try  them." 

"If  you  shoot  a  burglar,"  said  Lord  Wooden- 
house  abruptly,  with  a  gust  of  that  ill-temper 
that  was  frequent  at  Shonts  towards  bedtime, 
"when  he's  not  attacking  you,  it's  murder." 

Sir  Peter  held  up  an  offensively  pacifying  hand. 
"I  know  that/^  he  said;  "you  needn't  tell  me 
that'' 

He  raised  his  voice  a  little  to  increase  his 
already  excessive  accentuations.  "  /  said  properly 
used." 

A  yawn  took  the  Lord  Chancellor  unawares 
and  he  caught  it  dexterously  with  his  hand. 
Then  he  saw  Douglas  hastily  pull  at  his  little 
blond  moustache  to  conceal  a   smile,  —  grinning 


A  WEEK-END  AT  SHONTS  35 

ape!  Wliat  was  there  to  smile  at?  The  man 
had  been  smiling  all  the  evening. 

Up  to  something? 

"Now  let  me  tell  you/^  said  Sir  Peter,  "let  me 
tell  you  the  proper  way  to  use  a  revolver.  You 
whip  it  out  and  instantly  let  fly  at  the  ground. 
You  should  never  let  anyone  see  a  revolver  ever 
before  they  hear  it  —  see  ?  You  let  fly  at  the 
ground  first  off,  and  the  concussion  stuns  them. 
It  doesn^t  stun  you.  You  expect  it,  they  don't. 
See  ?  There  you  are  —  five  shots  left,  master  of 
the  situation." 

f  "I  think,  Sir  Peter,  V\\  bid  you  good-night," 
said  the  Lord  Chancellor,  allowing  his  eye  to  rest 
for  one  covetous  moment  on  the  decanter,  and 
struggling  with  the  devil  of  pride. 

Sir  Peter  made  a  gesture  of  extreme  friendliness 
from  his  chair,  expressive  of  the  Lord  Chancellor's 
freedom  to  do  whatever  he  pleased  at  Shonts. 
"I  may  perhaps  tell  you  a  little  story  that  hap- 
pened once  in  Morocco." 

"My  eyes  won't  keep  open  any  longer,"  said 
Captain  Douglas  suddenly,  with  a  whirl  of  his 
knuckles  into  his  sockets,  and  stood  up. 

Lord  Woodenhouse  stood  up  too. 

"You  see,"  said  Sir  Peter,  standing  also  but 
sticking  to  his  subject  and  his  hearer.  "This 
was  when  I  was  younger  than  I  am  now,  you 
must  understand,  and  I  wasn't  married.  Just 
mooching  about  a  bit,  between  business  and 
pleasure.  Under  such  circumstances  one  goes 
into  parts  of  a  foreign  town  where  one  wouldn't 
go  if  one  was  older  and  wiser.  ..." 


36  BEALBY 

Captain  Douglas  left  Sir  Peter  and  Wooden- 
house  to  it. 

He  emerged  on  the  landing  and  selected  one 
of  the  lighted  candlesticks  upon  the  table. 
"Lord!"  he  whispered.  He  grimaced  in  solil- 
oquy and  then  perceived  the  Lord  Chancellor 
regarding  him  with  suspicion  and  disfavour  from 
the  ascending  staircase.  He  attempted  ease. 
For  the  first  time  since  the  train  incident  he 
addressed  Lord  Moggeridge. 

"I  gather,  my  lord,  —  don't  believe  in  ghosts?" 
he  said. 

"No,  Sir,"  said  the  Lord  Chancellor,  "I  don't." 

"They  won't  trouble  me  to-night." 

"They  won't  trouble  any  of  us." 

"Fine  old  house  anyhow,"  said  Captain  Doug- 
las. 

The  Lord  Chancellor  disdained  to  reply.  He 
went  on  his  way  upstairs. 

§4 

When  the  Lord  Chancellor  sat  down  before 
the  thoughtful  fire  in  the  fine  old  panelled  room 
assigned  to  him  he  perceived  that  he  was  too 
disturbed  to  sleep.  This  was  going  to  be  an  in- 
fernal week-end.  The  worst  week-end  he  had 
ever  had.  Mrs.  Rampound  Pilby  maddened  him ; 
Timbre,  who  was  a  Pragmatist  —  which  stands 
in  the  same  relation  to  a  Hegelian  that  a  small 
dog  does  to  a  large  cat  —  exasperated  him ;  he 
loathed  Laxton,  detested  Rampound  Pilby  and 
feared  —  as  far  as  he  was  capable  of  fearing  any- 


A  WEEK-END  AT  SHONTS  37 

< 
thing  —  Captain  Douglas.  There  was  no  refuge, 
no  soul  in  the  house  to  whom  he  could  turn  for 
consolation  and  protection  from  these  others. 
Slinker  Bond  could  talk  only  of  the  affairs  of  the 
party,  and  the  Lord  Chancellor,  being  Lord  Chan- 
cellor, had  long  since  lost  any  interest  in  the 
affairs  of  the  party ;  Woodenhouse  could  talk  of 
nothing.  The  women  were  astonishingly  negli- 
gible. There  were  practically  no  pretty  women. 
There  ought  always  to  be  pretty  young  women 
for  a  Lord  Chancellor,  pretty  young  women  who 
can  at  least  seem  to  listen.  .  .  . 

And  he  was  atrociously  thirsty. 

His  room  was  supplied  only  with  water,  — 
stuff  you  use  to  clean  your  teeth  —  and  nothing 
else.  .  .  . 

No  good  thinking  about  it.  .  .  . 

He  decided  that  the  best  thing  he  could  do  to 
compose  himself  before  turning  in  would  be  to 
sit  down  at  the  writing-table  and  write  a  few 
sheets  of  Hegelian  —  about  that  Infinity  article 
in  the  Hibbert.  There  is  indeed  no  better  con- 
solation for  a  troubled  mind  than  the  Hegelian 
exercises  ;  they  lift  it  above  —  everything.  He 
took  off  his  coat  and  sat  down  to  this  beautiful 
amusement,  but  he  had  scarcely  written  a  page 
before  his  thirst  became  a  torment.  He  kept 
thinking  of  that  great  tumbler  Woodenhouse  had 
held,  —  sparkling,  golden,  cool  —  and  stimulating. 

What  he  wanted  was  a  good  stiff  whisky  and  a 
cigar,  one  of  Laxton's  cigars,  the  only  good  thing 
in  his  entertainment  so  far. 
-  And  then  Philosophy. 


38  BEALBY 

Even  as  a  student  he  had  been  a  worker  of  the 
Teutonic  type,  —  never  abstemious. 

He  thought  of  ringing  and  demanding  these 
comforts,  and  then  it  occurred  to  him  that  it  was 
a  Httle  late  to  ring  for  things.  Why  not  fetch 
them  from  the  study  himself?  .  .  . 

He  opened  his  door  and  looked  out  upon  the 
great  staircase.  It  was  a  fine  piece  of  work, 
that  staircase.     Low,  broad,  dignified.  .  .  . 

There  seemed  to  be  nobody  about.  The 
lights  were  still  on.  He  listened  for  a  little  while, 
and  then  put  on  his  coat  and  went  with  a  soft 
swiftness  that  was  still  quite  dignified  down- 
stairs to  the  study,  the  study  redolent  of  Sir 
Peter. 

He  made  his  modest  collection. 

Lord  Moggeridge  came  nearer  to  satisfaction 
as  he  emerged  from  the  study  that  night  at  Shonts 
than  at  any  other  moment  during  this  ill-advised 
week-end.  In  his  pocket  were  four  thoroughly 
good  cigars.  In  one  hand  he  held  a  cut  glass 
decanter  of  whisky.  In  the  other  a  capacious 
tumbler.  Under  his  arm,  with  that  confidence 
in  the  unlimited  portative  power  of  his  arm  that 
nothing  could  shake,  he  had  tucked  the  syphon. 
His  soul  rested  upon  the  edge  of  tranquillity 
like  a  bird  that  has  escaped  the  fowler.  He  was 
already  composing  his  next  sentence  about  that 
new  variety  of  Infinity.  .  .  . 

Then  something  struck  him  from  behind  and 
impelled  him  forward  a  couple  of  paces.  It  was 
something  hairy,  something  in  the  nature,  he 
thought  afterwards,  of  a  worn  broom.    And  also 


A  WEEK-END  AT  SHONTS  39 

there  were  two  other  things  softer  and  a  little 
higher  on  each  side.  ... 

Then  it  was  he  made  that  noise  like  the  young 
of  some  large  animal. 

He  dropped  the  glass  in  a  hasty  attempt  to  save 
the  syphon.  .  .  . 

"What  in  the  name  of  Heaven — ?"  he  cried, 
and  found  himself  alone. 

"  Captain  Douglas ! " 

The  thought  leapt  to  his  mind. 

But  indeed,  it  was  not  Captain  Douglas.  It 
was  Bealby.  Bealby  in  panic  flight  from  Thomas. 
And  how  was  Bealby  to  know  that  this  large, 
richly  laden  man  was  the  Lord  Chancellor  of 
England  ?  Never  before  had  Bealby  seen  anyone 
in  evening  dress  except  a  butler,  and  so  he  sup- 
posed this  was  just  some  larger,  finer  kind  of 
butler  that  they  kept  upstairs.  Some  larger, 
finer  kind  of  butler  blocking  the  path  of  escape. 
Bealby  had  taken  in  the  situation  with  the  ra- 
pidity of  a  hunted  animal.  The  massive  form 
blocked  the  door  to  the  left.  .   .  . 

In  the  playground  of  the  village  school  Bealby 
had  been  preeminent  for  his  dodging ;  he  moved 
as  quickly  as  a  lizard.  His  little  hands,  his  head, 
poised  with  the  skill  of  a  practised  butter,  came 
against  that  mighty  back,  and  then  Bealby  had 
dodged  into  the  study.  .  .  . 

But  it  seemed  to  Lord  Moggeridge,  staggering 
over  his  broken  glass  and  circling  about  defen- 
sively, that  this  fearful  indignity  could  come  only 
from  Captain  Douglas.  Foolery.  .  .  .  Blup, 
blup.  .  .  .    Sham  Poltergeist.     Imbeciles.  .  .  . 


40  BEALBY 

He  said  as  much,  believing  that  this  young  man 
and  possibly  confederates  were  within  hearing; 
he  said  as  much — hotly.  He  went  on  to  remark 
of  an  unphilosophical  tendency  about  Captain 
Douglas  generally,  and  about  army  officers,  prac- 
tical joking,  Laxton's  hospitalities,  Shonts.  .  .  . 
Thomas,  you  will  remember,  heard  him.  .  .  . 

Nothing  came  of  it.  No  answer,  not  a  word  of 
apology. 

At  last  in  a  great  dudgeon  and  with  a  kind  of 
wariness  about  his  back,  the  Lord  Chancellor, 
with  things  more  spoilt  for  him  than  ever,  went 
on  his  way  upstairs. 

When  the  green  baize  door  opened  behind  him, 
he  turned  like  a  shot,  and  a  large  foolish-faced 
butler  appeared.  Lord  Moggeridge,  with  a 
sceptre-like  motion  of  the  decanter,  very  quietly 
and  firmly  asked  him  a  simple  question  and  then, 
then  the  lunatic  must  needs  leap  up  three  stairs 
and  dive  suddenly  and  upsettingly  at  his  legs. 

Lord  Moggeridge  was  paralyzed  with  amaze- 
ment. His  legs  were  struck  from  under  him.  He 
uttered  one  brief  topographical  cry. 

(To  Sir  Peter  unfortunately  it  sounded  like 
"Help!") 

For  a  few  seconds  the  impressions  that  rushed 
upon  Lord  Moggeridge  were  too  rapid  for  adequate 
examination.  He  had  a  compelling  fancy  to  kill 
butlers.  Things  culminated  in  a  pistol  shot. 
And  then  he  found  himself  sitting  on  the  landing 
beside  a  disgracefully  dishevelled  manservant,  and 
his  host  was  running  downstairs  to  them  with  a 
revolver  la  his  hand. 


A  WEEK-END  AT  SHONTS  4,1 

On  occasion  Lord  Moggeridge  could  produce  a 
tremendous  voice.  He  did  so  now.  For  a  mo- 
ment he  stared  panting  at  Sir  Peter,  and  then 
emphasized  by  a  pointing  finger  came  the  voice. 
Never  had  it  been  so  charged  with  emotion. 

"What  does  this  meariy  you,  Sir?"  he  shouted. 
"What  does  this  mean?'' 

It  was  exactly  what  Sir  Peter  had  intended  to 
say. 

§5 

Explanations  are  detestable  things. 
And  anyhow  it  isn't  right  to  address  your  host 
as  "You,  Sir." 

§6 

Throughout  the  evening  the  persuasion  had 
grown  in  Lady  Laxton's  mind  that  all  was  not 
going  well  with  the  Lord  Chancellor.  It  was 
impossible  to  believe  he  was  enjoying  himself. 
But  she  did  not  know  how  to  give  things  a  turn 
for  the  better.  Clever  women  would  have  known, 
but  she  was  so  convinced  she  was  not  clever  that 
she  did  not  even  try. 

Thing  after  thing  had  gone  wrong. 

How  was  she  to  know  that  there  were  two 
sorts  of  philosophy,  —  quite  different  ?  She  had 
thought  philosophy  was  philosophy.  But  it 
seemed  that  there  were  these  two  sorts,  if  not 
more ;  a  round  large  sort  that  talked  about  the 
Absolute  and  was  scornfully  superior  and  rather 
irascible,  and  a  jabby-pointed  sort  that  called 
people  "Tender"  or  "Tough,"  and  was  generally 


42  BEALBY 

much  too  familiar.  To  bring  them  together  was 
just  mixing  trouble.  There  ought  to  be  little 
books  for  hostesses  explaining  these  things.  .  .  . 

Then  it  was  extraordinary  that  the  Lord  Chan- 
cellor, who  was  so  tremendously  large  and  clever, 
wouldn't  go  and  talk  to  Mrs.  Rampound  Pilby, 
who  was  also  so  tremendously  large  and  clever. 
Repeatedly  Lady  Laxton  had  tried  to  get  them 
into  touch  with  one  another.  Until  at  last  the 
Lord  Chancellor  had  said  distinctly  and  deliber- 
ately, when  she  had  suggested  his  going  across  to 
the  eminent  writer,  "God  forbid !''  Her  dream 
of  a  large  clever  duologue  that  she  could  after- 
wards recall  with  pleasure  was  altogether  shat- 
tered. She  thought  the  Lord  Chancellor  uncom- 
monly hard  to  please.  These  weren't  the  only 
people  for  him.  Why  couldn't  he  chat  party 
secrets  with  Slinker  Bond  or  say  things  to  Lord 
Woodenhouse  ?  You  could  say  anything  you 
liked  to  Lord  Woodenhouse.  Or  talk  with  Mr. 
Timbre.  Mrs.  Timbre  had  given  him  an  excellent 
opening;  she  had  asked,  "Wasn't  it  a  dreadful 
anxiety  always  to  have  the  Great  Seal  to  mind?" 
He  had  simply  grunted.  ,  .  .  And  then  why  did 
he  keep  on  looking  so  dangerously  at  Captain 
Douglas?  .  .  . 

Perhaps  to-morrow  things  would  take  a  turn 
for  the  better.  .  .  . 

One  can  at  least  be  hopeful.  Even  if  one  is  not 
clever  one  can  be  that.  .  .  . 

From  such  thoughts  as  these  it  was  that  this 
unhappy  hostess  was  roused  by  a  sound  of  smash- 
ing glass,  a  rumpus,  and  a  pistol  shot. 


A  WEEK-END  AT  SHONTS  43 

She  stood  up,  she  laid  her  hand  on  her  heart, 
she  said  "O/i/"  and  gripped  her  dressing-table 
for  support.  .  .  . 

After  a  long  time  and  when  it  seemed  that  it 
was  now  nothing  more  than  a  hubbub  of  voices, 
in  which  her  husband's  could  be  distinguished 
clearly,  she  crept  out  very  softly  upon  the  upper 
landing. 

She  perceived  her  cousin,  Captain  Douglas, 
looking  extremely  fair  and  frail  and  untrustworthy 
in  a  much  too  gorgeous  kimono  dressing-gown  of 
embroidered  Japanese  silk.  "I  can  assure  you, 
my  lord,"  he  was  saying  in  a  strange  high-pitched 
deliberate  voice,  "  on  -  my  -  word  -  of  -  honour  - 
as  -  a  -  soldier,  that  I  know  absolutely  nothing 
about  it." 

"Sure  it  wasn't  all  imagination,  my  lord?"  Sir 
Peter  asked  with  his  inevitable  infelicity.  .  .  . 

She  decided  to  lean  over  the  balustrading  and 
ask  very  quietly  and  clearly : 

"Lord  Moggeridge,  please!  is  anything  the 
matter?" 

§6 

All  human  beings  are  egotists,  but  there  is  no 
egotism  to  compare  with  the  egotism  of  the  very 
young. 

Bealby  was  so  much  the  centre  of  his  world 
that  he  was  incapable  of  any  interpretation  of 
this  shouting  and  uproar,  this  smashing  of  de- 
canters and  firing  of  pistol  shots,  except  in  refer- 
ence to  himself.  He  supposed  it  to  be  a  Hue  and 
Cry.     He  supposed  that  he  was  being  hunted  — 


44  BEALBY 

hunted  by  a  pack  of  great  butlers  hounded  on  by 
the  irreparably  injured  Thomas.  The  thought 
of  upstairs  gentlefolks  passed  quite  out  of  his 
mind.  He  snatched  up  a  faked  Syrian  dagger 
that  lay,  in  the  capacity  of  a  paper  knife,  on  the 
study  table,  concealed  himself  under  the  chintz 
valance  of  a  sofa,  adjusted  its  rumpled  skirts 
neatly,  and  awaited  the  issue  of  events. 

For  a  time  events  did  not  issue.  They  re- 
mained talking  noisily  upon  the  great  staircase. 
Bealby  could  not  hear  what  was  said,  but  most  of 
what  was  said  appeared  to  be  flat  contradiction. 

"Perchance,'^  whispered  Bealby  to  himself, 
gathering  courage,  "perchance  we  have  eluded 
them.  ...     A  breathing  space.  ..." 

At  last  a  woman's  voice  mingled  with  the 
others  and  seemed  a  little  to  assuage  them.  .  .  . 

Then  it  seemed  to  Bealby  that  they  were  dis- 
persing to  beat  the  house  for  him.  "Good- 
night  again  then,"   said   someone. 

That  puzzled  him,  but  he  decided  it  was  a 
"blind."     He  remained  very,  very  still. 

He  heard  a  clicking  in  the  apartment  —  the 
blue  parlour  it  was  called  —  between  the  study 
and  the  dining-room.     Electric  light? 

Then  some  one  came  into  the  study.  Bealby's 
eye  was  as  close  to  the  ground  as  he  could  get  it. 
He  was  breathless,  he  moved  his  head  with  an 
immense  circumspection.  The  valance  was  trans- 
lucent but  not  transparent,  below  it  there  was  a 
crack  of  vision,  a  strip  of  carpet,  the  castors  of 
chairs.  Among  these  things  he  perceived  feet  — 
not  ankles,  it  did  not  go  up  to  that,  but  just  feet. 


A  WEEK-END  AT  SHONTS  45 

Large  flattish  feet.  A  pair.  They  stood  still, 
and  Bealby's  hand  lighted  on  the  hilt  of  his 
dagger. 

The  person  above  the  feet  seemed  to  be  sur- 
veying the  room  or  reflecting. 

"Drunk!  .  .  .  Old  fool's  either  drunk  or  mad  ! 
That's  about  the  truth  of  it/'  said  a  voice. 

Mergleson  1  Angry,  but  parroty  and  unmis- 
takable. 

The  feet  went  across  to  the  table  and  there 
were  faint  sounds  of  refreshment,  discreetly 
administered.  Then  a  moment  of  profound  still- 
ness. .  .  . 

"Ah !"  said  the  voice  at  last,  a  voice  renewed. 

Then  the  feet  went  to  the  passage  door,  halted 
in  the  doorway.  There  was  a  double  click.  The 
lights  went  out.  Bealby  was  in  absolute  dark- 
ness. 

Then  a  distant  door  closed  and  silence  fol- 
lowed upon  the  dark.  .  .  . 

Mr.  Mergleson  descended  to  a  pantry  ablaze 
with  curiosity. 

"The  Lord  Chancellor's  going  dotty,"  said 
Mr.  Mergleson,  replying  to  the  inevitable  question. 
"T'to's  what's  up."  .  .  . 

"I  tried  to  save  the  blessed  syphon,"  said  Mr. 
Mergleson,  pursuing  his  narrative,  "  and  'e  sprang 
on  me  like  a  leppard.  I  suppose  'e  thought  I 
wanted  to  take  it  away  from  'im.  'E'd  broke  a 
glass  already.  ^Ow,  —  I  donH  know.  There  it 
was,  lying  on  the  landing.  .  .  ." 

"  'Ere's  where  'e  bit  my  'and,"  said  Mr.  Mergle- 
son. .  .  • 


46  BEALBY 

A  curious  little  side-issue  occurred  to  Thomas. 
"Where's  young  Kicker  all  this  time?''  he 
asked. 

"Lord!"  said  Mr.  Mergleson,  "all  them  other 
things;  they  clean  drove  'im  out  of  my  'ed.  I 
suppose  'e's  up  there,  hiding  somewhere.  .  .  ." 

He  paused.  His  eye  consulted  the  eye  of 
Thomas. 

"'E's  got  be'ind  a  curtain  or  something/'  said 
Mr.  Mergleson.  .  .  . 

"Queer  where  'e  can  'ave  got  to,"  said  Mr. 
Mergleson.  .  .  . 

"Can't  be  bothered  about  'im/'  said  Mr. 
Mergleson. 

"I  expect  he'll  sneak  down  to  'is  room  when 
things  are  quiet/'  said  Thomas,  after  reflection. 

"No  good  going  and  looking  for  'im  now," 
said  Mr.  Mergleson.  "Things  upstairs,  —  they 
got  to  settle  down.  .  .  ." 

But  in  the  small  hours  Mr.  Mergleson  awakened 
and  thought  of  Bealby  and  wondered  whether  he 
was  in  bed.  This  became  so  great  an  uneasiness 
that  about  the  hour  of  dawn  he  got  up  and  went 
along  the  passage  to  Bealby's  compartment. 
Bealby  was  not  there  and  his  bed  had  not  been 
slept  in. 

That  sinister  sense  of  gathering  misfortunes 
which  comes  to  all  of  us  at  times  in  the  small 
hours,  was  so  strong  in  the  mind  of  Mr.  Mergle- 
son that  he  went  on  and  told  Thomas  of  this 
disconcerting  fact.  Thomas  woke  with  difficulty 
and  rather  crossly,  but  sat  up  at  last,  alive  to 
the  gravity  of  Mr.  Mergleson's  mood. 


A  WEEK-END  AT  SHONTS  47 

"If  ^e^s  found  hiding  about  upstairs  after  all 
this  upset/'  said  Mr.  Mergleson,  and  left  the 
rest  of  the  sentence  to  a  sympathetic  imagina- 
tion. 

"Now  it's  light,"  said  Mr.  Mergleson  after  a 
slight  pause,  "I  think  we  better  just  go  round 
and  'ave  a  look  for  'im.     Both  of  us.'' 

So  Thomas  clad  himself  provisionally,  and 
the  two  man-servants  went  upstairs  very  softly 
and  began  a  series  of  furtive  sweeping  move- 
ments —  very  much  in  the  spirit  of  Lord  Kitch- 
ener's historical  sweeping  movements  in  the 
Transvaal  —  through  the  stately  old  rooms  in 
which  Bealby  must  be  lurking.  .  .  . 

§8 

Man  is  the  most  restless  of  animals.  There  is 
an  incessant  urgency  in  his  nature.  He  never 
knows  when  he  is  well  off.  And  so  it  was  that 
Bealby's  comparative  security  under  the  sofa 
became  presently  too  irksome  to  be  endured. 
He  seemed  to  himself  to  stay  there  for  ages, 
but  as  a  matter  of  fact,  he  stayed  there  only 
twenty  minutes.  Then  with  eyes  tempered  to 
the  darkness  he  first  struck  out  an  alert  attentive 
head,  then  crept  out  and  remained  for  the  space 
of  half  a  minute  on  all  fours  surveying  the  in- 
distinct blacknesses  about  him. 

Then  he  knelt  up.  Then  he  stood  up.  Then 
with  arms  extended  and  cautious  steps  he  began 
an  exploration  of  the  apartment. 

The  passion  for  exploration  grows  with  what 


48  BEALBY 

it  feeds  upon.  Presently  Bealby  was  feeling 
his  way  into  the  blue  parlour  and  then  round  by 
its  shuttered  and  curtained  windows  to  the  dining- 
room.  His  head  was  now  full  of  the  idea  of  some 
shelter,  more  permanent,  less  pervious  to  house- 
maids, than  that  sofa.  He  knew  enough  now  of 
domestic  routines  to  know  that  upstairs  in  the 
early  morning  was  much  routed  by  housemaids. 
He  found  many  perplexing  turns  and  corners, 
and  finally  got  into  the  dining-room  fireplace 
where  it  was  very  dark  and  kicked  against  some 
fire-irons.  That  made  his  heart  beat  fast  for  a 
time.  Then  groping  on  past  it,  he  found  in  the 
darkness  what  few  people  could  have  found  in 
the  day,  the  stud  that  released  the  panel  that 
hid  the  opening  of  the  way  that  led  to  the 
priest  hole.  He  felt  the  thing  open,  and  halted 
perplexed.  In  that  corner  there  wasn't  a  ray 
of  light.  For  a  long  time  he  was  trying  to  think 
what  this  opening  could  be,  and  then  he  con- 
cluded it  was  some  sort  of  back  way  from  down- 
stairs. .  .  .  Well,  anyhow  it  was  all  exploring. 
With  an  extreme  gingerliness  he  got  himself 
through  the  panel.  He  closed  it  almost  com- 
pletely behind  him. 

Careful  investigation  brought  him  to  the  view 
that  he  was  in  a  narrow  passage  of  brick  or  stone 
that  came  in  a  score  of  paces  to  a  spiral  staircase 
going  both  up  and  down.  Up  this  he  went,  and 
presently  breathed  cool  night  air  and  had  a 
glimpse  of  stars  through  a  narrow  slit-like  window 
almost  blocked  by  ivy.  Then  —  what  was  very 
disagreeable  —  something  scampered. 


A  WEEK-END  AT  SHONTS  49 

When  Bealby's  heart  recovered  he  went  on 
up  again. 

He  came  to  the  priest  hole,  a  capacious  cell 
six  feet  square  with  a  bench  bed  and  a  little 
table  and  chair.  It  had  a  small  door  upon  the 
stairs  that  was  open  and  a  niche  cupboard.  Here 
he  remained  for  a  time.  Then  restlessness  made 
him  explore  a  cramped  passage,  he  had  to  crawl 
along  it  for  some  yards,  that  came  presently  into 
a  curious  space  with  wood  on  one  side  and  stone 
on  the  other.  Then  ahead,  most  blessed  thing! 
he  saw  light. 

He  went  blundering  toward  it  and  then  stopped 
appalled.  From  the  other  side  of  this  wooden 
wall  to  the  right  of  him  had  come  a  voice. 

"Come  in  !''  said  the  voice.  A  rich  masculine 
voice  that  seemed  scarcely  two  yards  away. 

Bealby  became  rigid.  Then  after  a  long  in- 
terval he  moved  —  as  softly  as  he  could. 

The  voice  soliloquized. 

Bealby  listened  intently,  and  then  when  all 
was  still  again  crept  forward  two  paces  more 
towards  the  gleam.     It  was   a  peephole. 

The  unseen  speaker  was  walking  about.  Bealby 
listened,  and  the  sound  of  his  beating  heart 
mingled  with  the  pad,  pad,  of  slippered  foot- 
steps. Then  with  a  brilliant  effort  his  eye  was 
at  the  chink.  All  was  still  again.  For  a  time 
he  was  perplexed  by  what  he  saw,  a  large  pink 
shining  dome,  against  a  deep  greenish  grey  back- 
ground. At  the  base  of  the  dome  was  a  kind  of 
interrupted  hedge,  brown  and  leafless.  .  .  . 

Then  he  realized  that  he  was  looking  at  the 


50  BEALBY 

top  of  a  head  and  two  enormous  eyebrows.  The 
rest  was  hidden.  .  .  . 

Nature  surprised  Bealby  into  a  penetrating 
sniff. 

"Now,"  said  the  occupant  of  the  room,  and 
suddenly  he  was  standing  up  —  Bealby  saw  a 
long  hairy  neck  sticking  out  of  a  dressing-gown  — 
and  walking  to  the  side  of  the  room.  "I  won't 
stand  it/'  said  the  great  voice,  "I  won't  stand 
it.     Ape's  foolery!" 

Then  the  Lord  Chancellor  began  rapping  at 
the  panelling  about  his  apartment. 

"Hollow!    It  all  sounds  hollow." 

Only  after  a  long  interval  did  he  resume  his 
writing.  .  .  . 

All  night  long  that  rat  behind  the  wainscot 
troubled  the  Lord  Chancellor.  Whenever  he  spoke, 
whenever  he  moved  about,  it  was  still ;  whenever 
he  composed  himself  to  write  it  began  to  rustle 
and  blunder.  Again  and  again  it  sniffed,  —  an 
annoying  kind  of  sniff.  At  last  the  Lord  Chan- 
cellor gave  up  his  philosophical  relaxation  and 
went  to  bed,  turned  out  the  lights  and  attempted 
sleep,  but  this  only  intensified  his  sense  of  an  un- 
easy, sniffing  presence  close  to  him.  When  the 
light  was  out  it  seemed  to  him  that  this  Thing, 
whatever  it  was,  instantly  came  into  the  room 
and  set  the  floor  creaking  and  snapping.  A 
Thing  perpetually  attempting  something  and 
perpetually  thwarted.  .  .  . 

The  Lord  Chancellor  did  not  sleep  a  wink. 
The  first  feeble  infiltration  of  day  found  him  sit- 
ting up  in  bed,  wearily  wrathful.  .  .  .    And  now 


A  WEEK-END  AT  SHONTS  61 

surely  someone  was  going  along  the  passage 
outside ! 

A  great  desire  to  hurt  somebody  very  much 
seized  upon  the  Lord  Chancellor.  Perhaps  he 
might  hurt  that  dismal  farceur  upon  the  landing ! 
No  doubt  it  was  Douglas  sneaking  back  to  his 
own  room  after  the  night's  efforts. 

The  Lord  Chancellor  slipped  on  his  dressing- 
gown  of  purple  silk.  Very  softly  indeed  did  he 
open  his  bedroom  door  and  very  warily  peep  out. 
He  heard  the  soft  pad  of  feet  upon  the  staircase. 

He  crept  across  the  broad  passage  to  the  beau- 
tiful old  balustrading.  Down  below  he  saw 
Mergleson  —  Mergleson  again !  —  in  a  shameful 
deshabille  —  going  Hke  a  snake,  like  a  slinking 
cat,  like  an  assassin,  into  the  door  of  the  study. 
Kage  filled  the  great  man's  soul.  Gathering  up 
the  skirts  of  his  dressing-gown  he  started  in  a 
swift  yet  noiseless  pursuit. 

He  followed  Mergleson  through  the  little  par- 
lour and  into  the  dining-room,  and  then  he  saw 
it  all !  There  was  a  panel  open,  and  Mergleson 
very  cautiously  going  in.  Of  course !  They  had 
got  at  him  through  the  priest  hole.  They  had 
been  playing  on  his  nerves.  All  night  they  had 
been  doing  it  —  no  doubt  in  relays.  The  whole 
house  was  in  this  conspiracy. 

With  his  eyebrows  spread  like  the  wings  of 
a  fighting-cock  the  Lord  Chancellor  in  five  vast 
noiseless  strides  had  crossed  the  intervening 
space  and  gripped  the  butler  by  his  collarless 
shirt  as  he  was  disappearing.  It  was  like  a  hawk 
striking    a    sparrow.       Mergleson    felt    himself 


62  BEALBY 

clutched,  glanced  over  his  shoulder  and,  seeing 
that  fierce  familiar  face  again  close  to  his  own, 
pitiless,  vindictive,  lost  all  sense  of  human  dignity 
and  yelled  like  a  lost  soul.  .  .  • 

§9 

Sir  Peter  Laxton  was  awakened  from  an  uneasy 
sleep  by  the  opening  of  the  dressing-room  door 
that  connected  his  room  with  his  wife^s. 

He  sat  up  astonished  and  stared  at  her  white 
face,  its  pallor  exaggerated  by  the  cold  light  of 
dawn. 

"Peter,''  she  said,  "I'm  sure  there's  something 
more  going  on." 

"Something  more  going  on?" 

"  Something  —  shouting  and  swearing.^ 

"You  don't  mean—?" 

She  nodded.  "The  Lord  Chancellor,"  she  said, 
in  an  awe-stricken  whisper.  "He's  at  it  again. 
Downstairs  in  the  dining-room." 

Sir  Peter  seemed  disposed  at  first  to  receive  this 
quite  passively.  Then  he  flashed  into  extrava- 
gant wrath.  "I'm  damned/^  he  cried,  jumping 
violently  out  of  bed,  "if  I'm  going  to  stand  this ! 
Not  if  he  was  a  hundred  Lord  Chancellors  1 
He's  turning  the  place  into  a  bally  lunatic  asylum. 
Once  —  one  might  excuse.  But  to  start  in  again. 
.  .  .     What's  that  f' 

They  both  stood  still  listening.  Faintly  yet 
quite  distinctly  came  the  agonized  cry  of  some 
imperfectly  educated  person,  —  "'Elp  1" 

"Here!    Where's    my    trousers?"     cried    Sir 


17 


A  WEEK-END  AT  SHONTS  83 

Peter.     ''He's  murdering  Mergleson.    There  isn't 
a  moment  to  lose." 

§10 

Until  Sir  Peter  returned  Lady  Laxton  sat  quite 
still  just  as  he  had  left  her  on  his  bed,  aghast. 

She  could  not  even  pray. 

The  sun  had  still  to  rise ;  the  room  was  full  of 
that  cold  weak  inky  light,  light  without  warmth, 
knowledge  without  faith,  existence  without  cour- 
age, that  creeps  in  before  the  day.  She  waited. 
...  In  such  a  mood  women  have  waited  for 
massacre.  .  .  . 

Downstairs  a  raucous  shouting.  .  .  . 

She  thought  of  her  happy  childhood  upon  the 
Yorkshire  wolds,  before  the  idea  of  week-end 
parties  had  entered  her  mind.  The  heather. 
The  little  birds.  Kind  things.  A  tear  ran  down 
her  cheek.  .  .  . 

§11 

Then  Sir  Peter  stood  before  her  again,  alive 
still,  but  breathless  and  greatly  ruffled. 

She  put  her  hands  to  her  heart.  She  would  be 
brave. 

"Yes,''  she  said.     "TeU  me." 

''He's  as  mad  as  a  hatter,"  said  Sir  Peter. 

She  nodded  for  more.     She  knew  that. 

"Has  he  —  killed  anyone?"  she  whispered. 

"He  looked  uncommonly  like  trying,"  said  Sir 
Peter. 

She  nodded,  her  lips  tightly  compressed. 


54  BEALBY 

"Says  Douglas  will  either  have  to  leave  the 
house  or  he  does/' 

''But  — Douglas!'' 

"I  know,  but  he  won't  hear  a  word." 

"But  w;%  Douglas?" 

"I  tell  you  he's  as  mad  as  a  hatter.  Got  per- 
secution mania.  People  tapping  and  bells  ringing 
under  his  pillow  all  night  —  that  sort  of  idea.  .  .  . 
And  furious.  I  tell  you,  —  he  frightened  me. 
He  was  awful.  He's  given  Mergleson  a  black 
eye.  Hit  him,  you  know.  With  his  fist.  Caught 
him  in  the  passage  to  the  priest  hole  —  how  they 
got  there  /  don't  know  —  and  went  for  him  like 
a  madman." 

"But  what  has  Douglas  done?" 

"I  know.  I  asked  him,  but  he  won't  listen. 
He's  just  off  his  head.  .  .  .  Says  Douglas  has 
got  the  whole  household  trying  to  work  a  ghost 
on  him.     I  tell  you  —  he's  off  his  nut." 

Husband  and  wife  looked  at  each  other.  .  .  . 

"Of  course  if  Douglas  didn't  mind  just  going  off 
to  oblige  me,"  said  Sir  Peter  at  last.  .  .  . 

"It  might  calm  him,"  he  explained.  .  ,  . 
"You  see,  it's  all  so  infernally  awkward.  .  .  ." 

"Is  he  back  in  his  room?" 

"Yes.  Waiting  for  me  to  decide  about  Doug- 
las.    Walking  up  and  down." 

For  a  little  while  their  minds  remained  prostrate 
and  inactive. 

"I'd  been  so  looking  forward  to  the  lunch," 
she  said  with  a  joyless  smile.     "The  county — " 

She  could  not  go  on. 

"You  know,"  said  Sir  Peter,  "one  thing, — 


A  WEEK-END  AT  SHONTS  55 

I'll  see  to  it  myself.  I  won't  have  him  have  a 
single  drop  of  liquor  more.  If  we  have  to  search 
his  room.'' 

"What  I  shall  say  to  him  at  breakfast/'  she 
said,  "I  don't  know." 

Sir  Peter  reflected.  "There's  no  earthly  reason 
why  you  should  be  brought  into  it  at  all.  Your 
line  is  to  know  nothing  about  it.  Show  him 
you  know  nothing  about  it.  Ask  him  —  ask  him 
if  he's  had  a  good  night.  •  .  ." 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  WANDERERS 

§1 

Never  had  the  gracious  eastward  face  of 
Shonts  looked  more  beautiful  than  it  did  on  the 
morning  of  the  Lord  Chancellor's  visit.  It 
glowed  as  translucent  as  amber  lit  by  flames, 
its  two  towers  were  pillars  of  pale  gold.  It  looked 
over  its  slopes  and  parapets  upon  a  great  valley 
of  mist-barred  freshness  through  which  the  distant 
river  shone  like  a  snake  of  light.  The  south-west 
fagade  was  still  in  the  shadow,  and  the  ivy  hung 
from  it  darkly  greener  than  the  greenest  green. 
The  stained-glass  windows  of  the  old  chapel 
reflected  the  sunrise  as  though  lamps  were  burn- 
ing inside.  Along  the  terrace  a  pensive  peacock 
trailed  his  sheathed  splendours  through  the  dew. 

Amidst  the  ivy  was  a  fuss  of  birds. 

And  presently  there  was  pushed  out  from  amidst 
the  ivy  at  the  foot  of  the  eastward  tower  a  little 
brownish  buff  thing,  that  seemed  as  natural  there 
as  a  squirrel  or  a  rabbit.  It  was  a  head,  —  a 
ruffled  human  head.  It  remained  still  for  a 
moment  contemplating  the  calm  spaciousness  of 
terrace  and  garden  and  countryside.  Then  it 
emerged  further  and  rotated  and  surveyed  the 

56 


THE  WANDERERS  57 

house  above  it.  Its  expression  was  one  of  alert 
caution.  Its  natural  freshness  and  innocence 
were  a  little  marred  by  an  enormous  transverse 
smudge,  a  bar-sinister  of  smut,  and  the  elfin 
delicacy  of  the  left  ear  was  festooned  with  a  cob- 
web —  probably  a  genuine  antique.  It  was  the 
face  of  Bealby. 

He  was  considering  the  advisability  of  leaving 
Shonts  —  for  good. 

Presently  his  decision  was  made.  His  hands 
and  shoulders  appeared  following  his  head,  and 
then  a  dusty  but  undamaged  Bealby  was  running 
swiftly  towards  the  corner  of  the  shrubbery. 
He  crouched  lest  at  any  moment  that  pursuing 
pack  of  butlers  should  see  him  and  give  tongue. 
In  another  moment  he  was  hidden  from  the  house 
altogether,  and  rustling  his  way  through  a  thicket 
of  budding  rhododendra.  After  those  dirty  pas- 
sages the  morning  air  was  wonderfully  sweet  — 
but  just  a  trifle  hungry. 

Grazing  deer  saw  Bealby  fly  across  the  park, 
stared  at  him  for  a  time  with  great  gentle  unin- 
telligent eyes,  and  went  on  feeding. 

They  saw  him  stop  ever  and  again.  He  wag 
snatching  at  mushrooms,  that  he  devoured  forth- 
with as  he  sped  on. 

On  the  edge  of  the  beech-woods  he  paused  and 
glanced  back  at  Shonts. 

Then  his  eyes  rested  for  a  moment  on  the  clump 
of  trees  through  which  one  saw  a  scrap  of  the  head 
gardener's  cottage,  a  bit  of  the  garden  wall.  .  .  . 

A  physiognomist  might  have  detected  a  certain 
lack  of  self-confidence  in  Bealby's  eyes. 


58  BEALBY 

But  his  spirit  was  not  to  be  quelled.  Slowly, 
joylessly  perhaps,  but  with  a  grave  determina- 
tion, he  raised  his  hand  in  that  prehistoric  gesture 
of  the  hand  and  face  by  which  youth,  since  ever 
there  was  youth,  has  asserted  the  integrity  of  its 
soul  against  established  and  predominant  things. 

^^ Ketch  me!"  said  Bealby. 

§2 

Bealby  left  Shonts  about]  half-past  four  in  the 
morning.  He  went  westward  because  he  liked 
the  company  of  his  shadow  and  was  amused  at 
first  by  its  vast  length.  By  half-past  eight  he 
had  covered  ten  miles,  and  he  was  rather  bored 
by  his  shadow.  He  had  eaten  nine  raw  mush- 
rooms, two  green  apples  and  a  quantity  of  unripe 
blackberries.  None  of  these  things  seemed  quite 
at  home  in  him.  And  he  had  discovered  himself 
to  be  wearing  slippers.  They  were  stout  carpet 
slippers,  but  still  they  were  slippers,  —  and  the 
road  was  telling  on  them.  At  the  ninth  mile  the 
left  one  began  to  give  on  the  outer  seam.  He  got 
over  a  stile  into  a  path  that  ran  through  the  corner 
of  a  wood,  and  there  he  met  a  smell  of  frying 
bacon  that  turned  his  very  soul  to  gastric  juice. 

He  stopped  short  and  sniffed  the  air  —  and  the 
air  itself  was  sizzling. 

"Oh,  Krikey,"  said  Bealby,  manifestly  to  the 
Spirit  of  the  World.  '^This  is  a  bit  too  strong. 
I  wasn't  thinking  much  before. '^ 

Then  he  saw  something  bright  yellow  and  bulky 
just  over  the  hedge. 


THE  WANDERERS  59 

From  this  it  was  that  the  sound  of  frying  came. 

He  went  to  the  hedge,  making  no  effort  to  con- 
ceal himself.  Outside  a  great  yellow  caravan  with 
dainty  little  windows  stood  a  largish  dark  woman 
in  a  deerstalker  hat,  a  short  brown  skirt,  a  large 
white  apron  and  spatterdashes  (among  other 
things),  frying  bacon  and  potatoes  in  a  frying  pan. 
She  was  very  red  in  the  face,  and  the  frying  pan 
was  spitting  at  her  as  frying  pans  do  at  a  timid 
cook.  .  .  . 

Quite  mechanically  Bealby  scrambled  through 
the  hedge  and  drew  nearer  this  divine  smell. 
The  woman  scrutinized  him  for  a  moment,  and 
then  blinking  and  averting  her  face  went  on  with 
her  cookery. 

Bealby  came  quite  close  to  her  and  remained, 
noting  the  bits  of  potato  that  swam  about  in  the 
pan,  the  jolly  curling  of  the  rashers,  the  dancing 
of  the  bubbles,  the  hymning  splash  and  splutter 
of  the  happy  fat.  .  .  . 

(If  it  should  ever  fall  to  my  lot  to  be  cooked, 
may  I  be  fried  in  potatoes  and  butter.  May  I 
be  fried  with  potatoes  and  good  butter  made  from 
the  milk  of  the  cow.  God  send  I  am  spared 
boiling;  the  prison  of  the  pot,  the  rattHng  lid, 
the  evil  darkness,  the  greasy  water.  .  .  .) 

"I  suppose,"  said  the  lady  prodding  with  her 
fork  at  the  bacon,  ^^I  suppose  you  call  yourself  a 
Boy." 

"Yes,  miss,"  said  Bealby. 

"Have  you  ever  fried?" 

"I  could,  miss." 

"Like  this?" 


60  BEALBY 

''Better." 

"Just  lay  hold  of  this  handle  —  for  it's  scorch- 
ing the  skin  off  my  face  I  am."  She  seemed  to 
think  for  a  moment  and  added,  "entirely." 

In  silence  Bealby  grasped  that  exquisite  smell 
by  the  handle,  he  took  the  fork  from  her  hand 
and  put  his  hungry  eager  nose  over  the  seething 
mess.  It  wasn't  only  bacon ;  there  were  onions, 
onions  giving  it  —  an  edge !  It  cut  to  the  quick 
of  appetite.  He  could  have  wept  with  the  inten- 
sity of  his  sensations. 

A  voice  almost  as  delicious  as  the  smell  came 
out  of  the  caravan  window  behind  Bealby's  head. 

"  Jit-dy  !"  cried  the  voice. 

'\Here !  —  I  mean,  —  it's  here  I  am,"  said  the 
lady  in  the  deerstalker. 

"Judy  —  you  didn't  take  my  stockings  for  your 
own  by  any  chance?" 

The  lady  in  the  deerstalker  gave  way  to  de- 
lighted horror.     "Sssh,  Mavourneen!"  she  cried 

—  she  was  one  of  that  large  class  of    amiable 
women  who  are  more  Irish  than  they  need  be 

—  "there's  a  Boy  here!" 


There  was  indeed  an  almost  obsequiously  indus- 
trious and  obliging  Boy.  An  hour  later  he  was 
no  longer  a  Boy  but  the  Boy,  and  three  friendly 
women  were  regarding  him  with  a  merited  approval. 

He  had  done  the  frying,  renewed  a  waning  fire 
with  remarkable  skill  and  dispatch,  reboiled  a 
neglected  kettle  in  the  shortest  possible  time,  laid 
almost  without  direction   a   simple  meal,    very 


THE  WANDERERS  61 

exactly  set  out  campstools  and  cleaned  the  frying 
pan  marvellously.  Hardly  had  they  taken  their 
portions  of  that  appetizing  savouriness,  than  he 
had  whipped  off  with  that  implement,  gone  behind 
the  caravaU;  busied  himself  there,  and  returned 
with  the  pan  —  glittering  bright.  Himself  if 
possible  brighter.  One  cheek  indeed  shone  with 
an  animated  glow. 

"But  wasn't  there  some  of  the  bacon  and  stuff 
left?''  asked  the  lady  in  the  deerstalker. 

"I  didn't  think  it  was  wanted.  Miss/'  said 
Bealby.     "So  I  cleared  it  up." 

He  met  understanding  in  her  eye.  He  ques- 
tioned her  expression. 

"Mayn't  I  wash  up  for  you,  miss?"  he  asked  to 
relieve  the  tension. 

He  washed  up,  swiftly  and  cleanly.  He  had 
never  been  able  to  wash  up  to  Mr.  Mergleson's 
satisfaction  before,  but  now  he  did  everything 
Mr.  Mergleson  had  ever  told  him.  He  asked 
where  to  put  the  things  away  and  he  put  them 
away.  Then  he  asked  politely  if  there  was  any- 
thing else  he  could  do  for  them.  Questioned, 
he  said  he  liked  doing  things.  "You  haven't," 
said  the  lady  in  the  deerstalker,  "a  taste  for 
cleaning  boots?" 

Bealby  declared  he  had. 

"Surely,"  said  a  voice  that  Bealby  adored, 
"'tis  an  angel  from  heaven." 

He  had  a  taste  for  cleaning  boots !  This  was 
an  extraordinary  thing  for  Bealby  to  say.  But  a 
great  change  had  come  to  him  in  the  last  half- 
hour.     He  was  violently  anxious  to  do  things, 


62  BEALBY 

any  sort  of  things,  servile  things,  for  a  particular 
person.    He  was  in  love. 

The  owner  of  the  beautiful  voice  had  come  out  of 
the  caravan,  she  had  stood  for  a  moment  in  the 
doorway  before  descending  the  steps  to  the  ground 
and  the  soul  of  Bealby  had  bowed  down  before 
her  in  instant  submission.  Never  had  he  seen 
anything  so  lovely.  Her  straight  slender  body 
was  sheathed  in  blue ;  fair  hair,  a  little  tinged  with 
red,  poured  gloriously  back  from  her  broad  fore- 
head, and  she  had  the  sweetest  eyes  in  the  world. 
One  hand  Hfted  her  dress  from  her  feet ;  the  other 
rested  on  the  lintel  of  the  caravan  door.  She 
looked  at  him  and  smiled. 

So  for  two  years  she  had  looked  and  smiled 
across  the  footlights  to  the  Bealby  in  mankind. 
She  had  smiled  now  on  her  entrance  out  of  habit. 
She  took  the  effect  upon  Bealby  as  a  foregone 
conclusion. 

Then  she  had  looked  to  make  sure  that  every- 
thing was  ready  before  she  descended. 

"How  good  it  smells,  Judy !"  she  had  said. 

"IVe  had  a  helper,''  said  the  woman  who  wore 
spats. 

That  time  the  blue-eyed  lady  had  smiled  at  him 
quite  definitely.  .  .  . 

The  third  member  of  the  party  had  appeared 
imobserved ;  the  irradiations  of  the  beautiful  lady 
had  obscured  her.  Bealby  discovered  her  about. 
She  was  bareheaded ;  she  wore  a  simple  grey 
dress  with  a  Norfolk  jacket,  and  she  had  a  pretty 
clear  white  profile  under  black  hair.  She  answered 
to  the  name  of  "Winnie.''    The  beautiful  lady 


THE  WANDERERS  63 

was  Madeleine.  They  made  little  obscure  jokes 
with  each  other  and  praised  the  morning  ardently. 
^'Tliis  is  the  best  place  of  all/'  said  Madeleine. 

"All  night,"  said  Winnie,  "not  a  single  mos- 
quito." 

None  of  these  three  ladies  made  any  attempt  to 
conceal  the  sincerity  of  their  hunger  or  their 
appreciation  of  Bealby's  assistance.  How  good  a 
thing  is  appreciation !  Here  he  was  doing,  with 
joy  and  pride  and  an  eager  excellence,  the  very 
services  he  had  done  so  badly  under  the  cuffings 
of  Mergleson  and  Thomas.  .  .  . 

§4 

And  now  Bealby,  having  been  regarded  with 
approval  for  some  moments  and  discussed  in 
tantalizing  undertones,  was  called  upon  to  ex- 
plain himself. 

"Boy,"  said  the  lady  in  the  deerstalker,  who 
was  evidently  the  leader  and  still  more  evidently 
the  spokeswoman  of  the  party,  "come  here." 

"Yes,  miss."  He  put  down  the  boot  he  was 
cleaning  on  the  caravan  step. 

"In  the  first  place,  know  by  these  presents, 
I  am  a  married  woman." 

"Yes,  miss." 

"And  miss  is  not  a  seemly  mode  of  address 
for  me." 

"No,  miss.  I  mean — "  Bealby  hung  for  a 
moment  and  by  the  happiest  of  accidents,  a  scrap 
of  his  instruction  at  Shonts  came  up  in  his  mind. 
"No,"  he  said,  "your —  ladyship." 


64  BEALBY 

A  great  light  shone  on  the  spokeswoman's  face. 
"Not  yet,  my  child/'  she  said,  "not  yet.  He  hasn't 
done  his  duty  by  me.     I  am — a  simple  Mum.'' 

Bealby  was  intelligently  silent. 

"Say  — Yes,  Mum." 

"Yes,  Mum,"  said  Bealby  and  everybody 
laughed  very  agreeably. 

"And  now,"  said  the  lady,  taking  pleasure  in  her 
words,  "  know  by  these  presents  —  By  the  bye, 
what  is  your  name?" 

Bealby  scarcely  hesitated.  "  Dick  Mal-travers, 
Mum,"  he  said  and  almost  added,  "The  Dauntless 
Daredevil  of  the  Diamond-fields  Horse,"  which 
was  the  second  title. 

"Dick  will  do,"  said  the  lady  who  was  called 
Judy,  and  added  suddenly  and  very  amusingly : 
"  You  may  keep  the  rest." 

(These  were  the  sort  of  people  Bealby  liked. 
The  right  sort.) 

"Well,  Dick,  we  want  to  know,  have  you  ever 
been  in  service?" 

It  was  sudden.  But  Bealby  was  equal  to  it. 
"  Only  for  a  day  or  two,  miss  —  I  mean.  Mum, 
—  just  to  be  useful." 

"  Were  you  useful  ?  " 

Bealby  tried  to  think  whether  he  had  been, 
and  could  recall  nothing  but  the  face  of  Thomas 
with  the  fork  hanging  from  it.  "I  did  my  best, 
Mum,"  he  said  impartially. 

"And  all  that  is  over?" 

"Yes,  Mum." 

"And  you're  at  home  again  and  out  of  employ- 
ment?" 


THE  WANDERERS  65 

"Yes,  Mum." 

"Do  you  live  near  here?" 

"No  —  leastways,  not  very  far." 

"With  your  father." 

"Stepfather,  Mum.     I'm  a  Norfan." 

"Well;  how  would  you  like  to  come  with  us 
for  a  few  days  and  help  with  things?  Seven- 
and-sixpence  a  week." 

Bealby's  face  was  eloquent. 

"Would  your  stepfather  object?" 

Bealby  considered.  "I  don't  think  he  would," 
he  said. 

"You'd  better  go  round  and  ask  him." 

"I  —  suppose  —  yes,"  he  said. 

"And  get  a  few  things." 

"Things,  Mum?" 

"Collars  and  things.  You  needn't  bring  a 
great  box  for  such  a  little  while." 

"Yes,  Mum.  .  .  ." 

He  hovered  rather  undecidedly. 

"Better  run  along  now.  Our  man  and  horse 
will  be  coming  presently.  We  shan't  be  able  to 
wait  for  you  long.  ..." 

Bealby  assumed  a  sudden  briskness  and  de- 
parted. 

At  the  gate  of  the  field  he  hesitated  almost 
imperceptibly  and  then  directed  his  face  to  the 
Sabbath  stillness  of  the  village. 

Perplexity  corrugated  his  features.  The  step- 
father's permission  presented  no  difficulties,  but 
it  was  more  difficult  about  the  luggage. 

A  voice  called  after  him. 

"Yes,  Mum?"  he  said  attentive  and  hopeful. 


66  BEALBY 

Perhaps  —  somehow  —  they  wouldn't  want  lug- 
gage. 

^'You'll  want  Boots.  You'll  have  to  walk  by 
the  caravan,  you  know.  You'll  want  some  good 
stout  Boots." 

"All  right,  Mum,"  he  said  with  a  sorrowful 
break  in  his  voice.  He  waited  a  few  moments 
but  nothing  more  came.  He  went  on  —  very 
slowly.     He  had  forgotten  about  the  boots. 

That  defeated  him.  .  .  . 

It  is  hard  to  be  refused  admission  to  Paradise 
for  the  want  of  a  hand-bag  and  a  pair  of  walking- 
boots.  .  .  . 

§5 

Bealby  was  by  no  means  certain  that  he  was 
going  back  to  that  caravan.  He  wanted  to  do 
so  quite  painfully,  but  — 

He'd  just  look  a  fool  going  back  without  boots 
and  —  nothing  on  earth  would  reconcile  him  to 
the  idea  of  looking  a  fool  in  the  eyes  of  that  beau- 
tiful woman  in  blue. 

"Dick,"  he  whispered  to  himself  despondently, 
"Daredevil  Dick!"  (A  more  miserable-looking 
face  you  never  set  eyes  on.)  "  It's  all  up  with  your 
little  schemes,  Dick,  my  boy.  You  must  get  a 
bag  —  and  nothing  on  earth  will  get  you  a  bag.'^ 

He  paid  little  heed  to  the  village  through  which 
he  wandered.  He  knew  there  were  no  bags 
there.  Chance  rather  than  any  volition  of  his 
own  guided  him  down  a  side  path  that  led  to  the 
nearly  dry  bed  of  a  little  rivulet,  and  there  he  sat 
down   on  some  weedy  grass  under  a  group  of 


THE  WANDERERS  67 

willows.  It  was  an  untidy  place  that  needed  all 
the  sunshine  of  the  morning  to  be  tolerable; 
one  of  those  places  where  stinging  nettles  take 
heart  and  people  throw  old  kettles,  broken  galli- 
pots, jaded  gravel,  grass  cuttings,  rusty  rubbish, 
old  boots  — . 

For  a  time  Bealby's  eyes  rested  on  the  objects 
with  an  entire  lack  of  interest. 

Then  he  was  reminded  of  his  not  so  very  remote 
childhood  when  he  had  found  an  old  boot  and  made 
it  into  a  castle.  .  .  . 

Presently  he  got  up  and  walked  across  to  the 
rubbish  heap  and  surveyed  its  treasures  with  a 
quickened  intelligence.  He  picked  up  a  widowed 
boot  and  weighed  it  in  his  hand. 

He  dropped  it  abruptly,  turned  about  and 
hurried  back  into  the  village  street. 

He  had  ideas,  two  ideas,  one  for  the  luggage 
and  one  for  the  boots.  ...  If  only  he  could 
manage  it.  Hope  beat  his  great  pinions  in  the 
heart  of  Bealby. 

Sunday !  The  shops  were  shut.  Yes,  that  was 
a  fresh  obstacle.     He'd  forgotten  that. 

The  pubKc-house  stood  bashfully  open,  the  shy 
uninviting  openness  of  Sunday  morning  before 
closing  time,  but  public-houses,  alas !  at  all  hours 
are  forbidden  to  little  boys.  And  besides  he 
wasn't  likely  to  get  what  he  wanted  in  a  pubHc- 
house;  he  wanted  a  shop,  a  general  shop.  And 
here  before  him  was  the  general  shop  —  and  its 
door  ajar  !  His  desire  carried  him  over  the  thresh- 
old. The  Sabbatical  shutters  made  the  place 
dark  and  cool,  and  the  smell  of  bacon  and  cheese 


68  BEALBY 

and  chandleries,  the  very  spirit  of  grocery,  calm 
and  unhurried,  was  cool  and  Sabbatical,  too,  as  if 
it  sat  there  for  the  day  in  its  best  clothes.  And 
a  pleasant  woman  was  talking  over  the  counter 
to  a  thin  and  worried  one  who  carried  a  bundle. 

Their  intercourse  had  a  flavour  of  emergency, 
and  they  both  stopped  abruptly  at  the  appearance 
of  Bealby.         ' 

His  desire,  his  craving  was  now  so  great  that  it 
had  altogether  subdued  the  natural  wiriness  of 
his  appearance.  He  looked  meek,  he  looked 
good,  he  was  swimming  in  propitiation  and  tender 
with  respect.  He  produced  an  effect  of  being 
much  smaller.  He  had  got  nice  eyes.  His 
movements  were  refined  and  his  manners  perfect. 

"Not  doing  business  to-day,  my  boy/'  said 
the  pleasant  woman. 

"Oh,  please  'm,"  he  said  from  his  heart. 

"Sunday,  you  know." 

"Oh,  'please  'm.  If  you  could  just  give  me  a 
nold  sheet  of  paper  'm,  please.'' 

"What  for?"  asked  the  pleasant  woman. 

"Just  to  wrap  something  up  'm." 

She  reflected,  and  natural  goodness  had  its  way 
with  her. 

"A  nice  big  bit?"  said  the  woman. 

"Please  'm." 

"Would  you  like  it  brown?" 

"Oh,  please  'm." 

"And  you  got  some  string?" 
^  "Only    cottony    stuff,"    said    Bealby,    disem- 
bowelling a  trouser  pocket.     "Wiv  knots.    But  I 
dessay  I  can  manage." 


THE  WANDERERS  69 

"You'd  better  have  a  bit  of  good  string  with 
it,  my  dear,"  said  the  pleasant  woman,  whose 
generosity  was  now  fairly  on  the  run,  "Then 
you  can  do  your  parcel  up  nice  and  tidy.  .  .  ." 

§6 

The  white  horse  was  already  in  the  shafts  of 
the  caravan,  and  William,  a  deaf  and  clumsy  man 
of  uncertain  age  and  a  vast  sharp  nosiness,  was 
lifting  in  the  basket  of  breakfast  gear  and  grum- 
bling in  undertones  at  the  wickedness  and  unfair- 
ness of  travelling  on  Sunday,  when  Bealby  re- 
turned to  gladden  three  waiting  women. 

"Ah!"  said  the  inconspicuous  lady,  "I  knew 
he'd  come." 

"Look  at  his  poor  little  precious  parsivel," 
said  the  actress. 

Regarded  as  luggage  it  was  rather  pitiful;  a 
knobby,  brown  paper  parcel  about  the  size  —  to 
be  perfectly  frank  —  of  a  tin  can,  two  old  boots 
and  some  grass,  very  carefully  folded  and  tied 
up,  —  and  carried  gingerly.  ^  . 

"But — "  the  lady  in  the  deerstalker  began, 
and  then  paused. 

"Dick,"  she  said,  as  he  came  nearer,  "wherels 
your  boots?" 

"Oh  please.  Mum,"  said  the  dauntless  one, 
"they  was  away  being  mended.  My  stepfather 
thought  perhaps  you  wouldn't  mind  if  I  didn't 
have  boots.  He  said  perhaps  I  might  be  able  to 
get  some  more  boots  out  of  my  salary.  ..." 

The  lady  in  the  deerstalker  looked  alarmingly 


70  BEALBY 

uncertain  and  Bealby  controlled  infinite  dis- 
tresses. 

"Haven't  you  got  a  mother,  Dick?*'  asked  the 
beautiful  voice  suddenly.  Its  owner  abounded 
in  such  spasmodic  curiosities. 

"She  —  last  year.  .  .  ."  Matricide  is  a  pain- 
ful business  at  any  time.  And  just  as  you  see, 
in  spite  of  every  effort  you  have  made,  the  j  oiliest 
lark  in  the  world  slipping  out  of  your  reach. 
And  the  sweet  voice  so  sorry  for  him !  So  sorry ! 
Bealby  suddenly  veiled  his  face  with  his  elbow 
and  gave  way  to  honourable  tears.  .  .  . 

A  simultaneous  desire  to  make  him  happy,  help 
him  to  forget  his  loss,  possessed  three  women.  .  .  . 

"That'll  be  all  right,  Dick,''  said  the  lady  in 
the  deerstalker,  patting  his  shoulder.  "We'll  get 
you  some  boots  to-morrow.  And  to-day  you  must 
sit  up  beside  William  and  spare  your  feet.  You'll 
have  to  go  to  the  inns  with  him.  .  .  ." 

"It's  wonderful,  the  elasticity  of  youth," 
said  the  inconspicuous  lady  five  minutes  later. 
"To  see  that  boy  now,  you'd  never  imagine  he'd 
had  a  sorrow  in  the  world." 

"Now  get  up  there,"  said  the  lady  who  was  the 
leader.  "We  shall  walk  across  the  fields  and 
join  you  later.  You  understand  where  you 
are  to  wait  for  us,  William?" 

She  came  nearer  and  shouted,  "You  under- 
stand, William?" 

William  nodded  ambiguously.  "'Ent  a  Yooly^^ 
he  said. 

The  ladies  departed.  "  You^ll  be  all  right, 
Dick,"  cried  the  actress  kindly. 


THE  WANDERERS  71 

He  sat  up  where  he  had  been  put,  trying  to 
look  as  Orphan  Dick  as  possible  after  all  that  had 
occurred. 

§7 

"  Do  you  know  the  wind  on  the  heath  —  have 
you  lived  the  Gypsy  life?  Have  you  spoken, 
wanderers  yourselves,  with  ^Romany  chi  and 
Romany  chal'  on  the  wind-swept  moors  at  home 
or  abroad?  Have  you  tramped  the  broad  high- 
ways, and,  at  close  of  day,  pitched  your  tent 
near  a  running  stream  and  cooked  your  supper 
by  starlight  over  a  fire  of  pinewood?  Do  you 
know  the  dreamless  sleep  of  the  wanderer  at 
peace  with  himself  and  all  the  world  ?'^ 

For  most  of  us  the  answer  to  these  questions 
of  the  Amateur  Camping  Club  is  in  the  negative. 

Yet  every  year  the  call  of  the  road,  the  Borrovian 
glamour,  draws  away  a  certain  small  number 
of  the  imaginative  from  the  grosser  comforts 
of  a  complex  civilization,  takes  them  out  into 
tents  and  caravans  and  intimate  communion 
with  nature,  and,  incidentally,  with  various  in- 
genious appliances  designed  to  meet  the  needs  of 
cooking  in  a  breeze.  It  is  an  adventure  to  which 
high  spirits  and  great  expectations  must  be 
brought,  it  is  an  experience  in  proximity  which 
few  friendships  survive  —  and  altogether  very 
great  fun. 

The  life  of  breezy  freedom  resolves  itself  in 
practice  chiefly  into  washing  up  and  an  anxious 
search  for  permission  to  camp.  One  learns  how 
rich  and  fruitful  our  world  can  be  in  bystanders, 


72  BEALBY 

and  how  easy  it  is  to  forget  essential  grocer- 
ies. .  .  . 

The  heart  of  the  joy  of  it  Hes  in  its  perfect  de- 
tachment. There  you  are  in  the  morning  sun- 
light under  the  trees  that  overhang  the  road,  go- 
ing whither  you  will.  Everything  you  need  you 
have.  Your  van  creaks  along  at  your  side.  You 
are  outside  inns,  outside  houses,  a  home,  a  com- 
munity, an  imperium  in  imperio.  At  any  moment 
you  may  draw  out  of  the  traffic  upon  the  wayside 
grass  and  say,  "Here  —  until  the  owner  catches 
us  at  it  —  is  home !''  At  any  time  —  subject  to 
the  complaisance  of  William  and  your  being  able 
to  find  him  —  you  may  inspan  and  go  onward. 
The  world  is  all  before  you.  You  taste  the  com- 
plete yet  leisurely  insouciance  of  the  snail. 

And  two  of  those  three  ladies  had  other  satis- 
factions to  supplement  their  pleasures.  They 
both  adored  Madeleine  Philips.  She  was  not 
only  perfectly  sweet  and  lovely,  but  she  was 
known  to  be  so ;  she  had  that  most  potent  charm 
for  women,  prestige.  They  had  got  her  all  to 
themselves.  They  could  show  now  how  false  is 
the  old  idea  that  there  is  no  friendship  nor  con- 
versation among  women.  They  were  full  of  wit 
and  pretty  things  for  one  another  and  snatches 
of  song  in  between.  And  they  were  free  too  from 
their  "menfolk."  They  were  doing  without  them. 
Dr.  Bowles,  the  husband  of  the  lady  in  the  deer- 
stalker, was  away  in  Ireland,  and  Mr.  Geedge, 
the  lord  of  the  inconspicuous  woman,  was  golfing 
at  ijandwich.  And  Madeleine  Philips,  it  was 
understood,  was  only  too  glad  to  shake  herself 


THE  WANDERERS  73 

free  from  the  crowd  of  admirers  that  hovered 
about  her  Hke  wasps  about  honey.  .  .  . 

Yet  after  three  days  each  one  had  thoughts 
about  the  need  of  helpfulness  and  more  particu- 
larly about  washing-up,  that  were  better  left 
unspoken,  that  were  indeed  conspicuously  un- 
spoken beneath  their  merry  give  and  take,  like 
a  black  and  silent  river  flowing  beneath  a  bridge 
of  ivory.  And  each  of  them  had  a  curious  feeling 
in  the  midst  of  all  this  fresh  free  behaviour,  as 
though  the  others  were  not  listening  sufficiently, 
as  though  something  of  the  effect  of  them  was 
being  wasted.  Madeleine's  smiles  became  rarer ; 
at  times  she  was  almost  impassive,  and  Judy 
preserved  nearly  all  her  wit  and  verbal  fireworks 
for  the  times  when  they  passed  through  villages. 
.  .  .  Mrs.  Geedge  was  less  visibly  affected.  She 
had  thoughts  of  writing  a  book  about  it  all,  telling 
in  the  gayest,  most  provocative  way,  full  of  the 
quietest  quaintest  humour,  just  how  jolly  they 
had  been.  Menfolk  would  read  it.  This  kept  a 
little  thin  smile  upon  her  lips.  .  .  . 

As  an  audience  William  was  tough  stuff.  He 
pretended  deafness  ;  he  never  looked.  He  did  not 
want  to  look.  He  seemed  always  to  be  holding 
his  nose  in  front  of  his  face  to  prevent  his  obser- 
vation—  as  men  pray  into  their  hats  at  church. 
But  once  Judy  Bowles  overheard  a  phrase  or  so 
in  his  private  soliloquy.  ^'Pack  o'  wimmin," 
William  was  saying.  "Dratted  petticoats.  Dang 
'em.     That's  what  I  say  to  'um.     Dang  'em !" 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  just  fell  short  of  saying 
it  to  them.     But  his  manner  said  it.  .  .  . 


74  BEALBY 

You  begin  to  see  how  acceptable  an  addition 
was  young  Bealby  to  this  company.  He  was  not 
only  helpful;  immensely  helpful;  in  things  material, 
a  vigorous  and  at  first  a  careful  washer-up,  an 
energetic  boot-polisher,  a  most  serviceable  cleaner 
and  tidier  of  things,  but  he  was  also  belief  and 
support.  Undisguisedly  he  thought  the  caravan 
the  loveliest  thing  going,  and  its  three  mistresses 
the  most  wonderful  of  people.  His  alert  eyes  fol- 
lowed them  about  full  of  an  unstinted  admiration 
and  interest ;  he  pricked  his  ears  when  Judy  opened 
her  mouth,  he  handed  things  to  Mrs.  Geedge. 
He  made  no  secret  about  Madeleine.  When  she 
spoke  to  him,  he  lost  his  breath,  he  reddened  and 
was  embarrassed.  .  .  . 

They  went  across  the  fields  saying  that  he  was 
the  luckiest  of  finds.  It  was  fortunate  his  people 
had  been  so  ready  to  spare  him.  Judy  said  boys 
were  a  race  very  cruelly  maligned ;  see  how 
willing  he  was !  Mrs.  Geedge  said  there  was 
something  elfin  about  Bealby's  little  face ;  Made- 
leine smiled  at  the  thought  of  his  quaint  artless- 
ness.  She  knew  quite  clearly  that  he^d  die  for 
her.  .  .  . 

§8 

There  was  a  little  pause  as  the  ladies  moved 
away. 

Then  William  spat  and  spoke  in  a  note  of  irra- 
tional bitterness. 

^^Brasted  Voolery,'^  said  William,  and  then 
loudly  and  fiercely,  "Cam  up,  y'ode  Runt  you.'' 

At  these  words  the  white  horse  started  into 


THE  WANDERERS  75 

a  convulsive  irregular  redistribution  of  its  feet, 
the  caravan  strained  and  quivered  into  motion 
and  Bealby's  wanderings  as  a  caravanner  began. 

For  a  time  William  spoke  no  more,  and  Bealby 
scarcely  regarded  him.  The  light  of  strange 
fortunes  and  deep  enthusiasm  was  in  Bealby^s 
eyes.  .  .  . 

"One  Thing,''  said  WiUiam,  "they  don't  'ave 
the  Sense  to  lock  any  think  up  —  whatever." 

Bealby's  attention  was  recalled  to  the  existence 
of  his  companion. 

William's  face  was  one  of  those  faces  that  give 
one  at  first  the  impression  of  a  solitary  and  very 
conceited  nose.  The  other  features  are  entirely 
subordinated  to  that  salient  effect.  One  sees 
them  later.  His  eves  were  small  and  uneven, 
his  mouth  apparently  toothless,  thin-lipped  and 
crumpled,  with  the  upper  lip  falling  over  the 
other  in  a  manner  suggestive  of  a  meagre  firmness 
mixed  with  appetite.  When  he  spoke  he  made  a 
faint  slobbering  sound.  "Everyfink,"  he  said, 
"behind  there." 

He  became  confidential.  "I  been  in  there. 
I  larked  about  wiv  their  Fings." 

"They  got  some  choc'late,"  he  said,  lusciously. 
''OoFine!" 

"All  sorts  of  Fings." 

He  did  not  seem  to  expect  any  reply  from 
Bealby. 

"We  going  far  before  we  meet  'em?"  asked 
Bealby. 

William's  deafness  became  apparent. 

His  mind  was  preoccupied  by  other  ideas.     One 


76  BEALBY 

wicked  eye  came  close  to  Bealby's  face.  "We 
going  to  'ave  a  bit  of  chocolate/ ^  he  said  iu  a  wet 
desirous  voice. 

He  pointed  his  thumb  over  his  shoulder  at  the 
door.  "  You  get  it/^  said  William  with  reassuring 
nods  and  the  mouth  much  pursed  and  very 
oblique. 

Bealby  shook  his  head. 

"It's  in  a  little  dror,  under  'er  place  where  she 
sleeps.^' 

Bealby's  head-shake  became  more  emphatic. 

"  YuSj  I  tell  you/'  said  William. 

"No/'  said  Bealby. 

"  Choc'late,  I  tell  you/'  said  William,  and  ran  the 
tongue  of  appetite  round  the  rim  of  his  toothless 
mouth. 

"Don't  want  choc'late/'  said  Bealby,  thinking 
of  a  large  lump  of  it. 

"Go  on/'  said  William.  "Nobody  won't  see 
you.  .  .  ." 

"Go  it!"  said  William.  .  .  . 

"You're  afraid/'  said  William.  .  .  . 

"Here,  /'ll  go/'  said  William,  losing  self- 
control.     ''You  just  'old  these  reins." 

Bealby  took  the  reins.  William  got  up  and 
opened  the  door  of  the  caravan.  Then  Bealby 
realized  his  moral  responsibility  —  and,  leaving 
the  reins,  clutched  William  firmly  by  his  baggy 
nether  garments.  They  were  elderly  garments, 
much  sat  upon.  "Don't  be  a  Vool,"  said  William 
struggling.     "Leago  my  slack." 

Something  partially  gave  way,  and  William's 
head  came  round  to  deal  with  Bealby. 


THE  WANDERERS  77 

"What  you  mean  pullin'  my  does  orf  me?" 

"That,"  —  he  investigated.  "Take  me  a  Nour 
to  sew  up." 

"I  ain't  going  to  steal,"  shouted  Bealby  into 
the  ear  of  WilHam. 

"Nobody  arst  you  to  steal — " 

"Nor  you  neither,"  said  Bealby. 

The  caravan  bumped  heavily  against  a  low 
garden  wall,  skidded  a  little  and  came  to  rest. 
William  sat  down  suddenly.  The  white  horse, 
after  a  period  of  confusion  with  its  legs,  tried  the 
flavour  of  some  overhanging  lilac  branches  and 
was  content. 

"Gimme  those  reins,"  said  William.  "You 
be  the  Brastedest  Young  Vool.  .  .  ." 

"Sittin'  'ere,"  said  William  presently,  "chewin' 
our  teeth,   when  we  might  be  eatin'   chocolate. 


f) 


"I  ^ent  got  no  use  for  you,^^  said  William, 
"Mowed  if  I  We.  .  .  ." 

Then  the  thought  of  his  injuries  returned  to 
him. 

"I'd  make  you  sew  'em  up  yourself,  darned 
if  I  wount  —  on'y  you'd  go  running  the  brasted 
needle  into  me.  .  .  .  Nour's  work  there  is  —  by 
the  feel  of  it.  .  .  .  Mor'n  nour.  .  .  .  God- 
dobe  done,  too.  .  .  .     All  I  got.  .  .  ." 

"I'll  give  you  Sumpfin,  you  little  Beace,  'fore  I 
done  wi'  you." 

"I  wouldn't  steal  'er  choc'lates,"  said  young 
Bealby,  "not  if  I  was  starving." 

"Eh?"  shouted  William. 

'' Steal  r'  shouted  Bealby. 


78  BEALBY 

"I'll  steal  ye,  'fore  I  done  with  ye/'  said  William. 
"  Tearin'  my  does  for  me.  ...  Oh !  Cam  wp, 
y'old  Runt.  We  don't  want  you  to  stop  and 
lissen.     Cam  up,  I  tell  you  ! " 

§8 

They  found  the  ladies  rather,  it  seemed,  by 
accident  than  design,  waiting  upon  a  sandy 
common  rich  with  purple  heather  and  bordered  by 
woods  of  fir  and  spruce.  They  had  been  waiting 
some  time,  and  it  was  clear  that  the  sight  of  the 
yellow  caravan  relieved  an  accumulated  anxiety. 
Bealby  rejoiced  to  see  them.  His  soul  glowed 
with  the  pride  of  chocolate  resisted  and  William 
overcome.  He  resolved  to  distinguish  himself 
over  the  preparation  of  the  midday  meal.  It 
was  a  pleasant  little  island  of  green  they  chose 
for  their  midday  pitch,  a  little  patch  of  emerald 
turf  amidst  the  purple,  a  patch  already  doomed 
to  removal,  as  a  bare  oblong  and  a  pile  of  rolled-up 
turfs  witnessed.  This  pile  and  a  little  bank  of 
heather  and  bramble  promised  shelter  from  the 
breeze,  and  down  the  hill  a  hundred  yards  away 
was  a  spring  and  a  built-up  pool.  This  spot 
lay  perhaps  fifty  yards  away  from  the  high 
road  and  one  reached  it  along  a  rutty  track  which 
had  been  made  by  the  turf  cutters.  And  overhead 
was  the  glorious  sky  of  an  English  summer,  with 
great  clouds  like  sunlit,  white-sailed  ships,  the 
Constable  sky.  The  white  horse  was  hobbled  and 
turned  out  to  pasture  among  the  heather,  and 
William  was  sent  off  to  get  congenial  provender 


THE  WANDERERS  79 

at  the  nearest  public  house.  "William !"  shouted 
Mrs.  Bowles  as  he  departed,  shouting  confiden- 
tially into  his  ear,  "Get  your  clothes  mended." 

"Eh?"  said  William. 

"Mend  your  clothes." 

"Yah!  'E  did  that,"  said  William  viciously 
with  a  movement  of  self-protection,  and  so  went. 

Nobody  watched  him  go.  Almost  sternly  they 
set  to  work  upon  the  luncheon  preparation  as 
William  receded.  "William,"  Mrs.  Bowles  re- 
marked, as  she  bustled  with  the  patent  cooker, 
putting  it  up  wrong  way  round  so  that  afterwards 
it  collapsed,  "William  —  takes  offence.  Some- 
times I  think  he  takes  offence  almost  too  often. 
.  .  .  Did  you  have  any  difficulty  with  him, 
Dick?" 

"It  wasn't  anything,  miss,"  said  Bealby  meekly. 

Bealby  was  wonderful  with  the  firelighting,  and 
except  that  he  cracked  a  plate  in  warming  it, 
quite  admirable  as  a  cook.  He  burnt  his  fingers 
twice  —  and  liked  doing  it ;  he  ate  his  portion 
with  instinctive  modesty  on  the  other  side  of 
the  caravan  and  he  washed  up  —  as  Mr.  Mergle- 
son  had  always  instructed  him  to  do.  Mrs. 
Bowles  showed  him  how  to  clean  knives  and  forks 
by  sticking  them  into  the  turf.  A  little  to  his 
surprise  these  ladies  lit  and  smoked  cigarettes. 
They  sat  about  and  talked  perplexingly.  Clever 
stuff.  Then  he  had  to  get  water  from  the  neigh- 
bouring brook  and  boil  the  kettle  for  an  early 
tea.  Madeleine  produced  a  charmingly  bound 
little  book  and  read  in  it,  the  other  two  professed 
themselves  anxious  for  the  view  from  a  neighbour- 


80  BEALBY 

ing  hill.  They  produced  their  sensible  spiked 
walking  sticks  such  as  one  does  not  see  in  England ; 
they  seemed  full  of  energy.  ^'Yoii  go/'  Made- 
leine had  said,  "while  I  and  Dick  stay  here  and 
make  tea.     IVe  walked  enough  to-day.  .  .  .'' 

So  Bealby,  happy  to  the  pitch  of  ecstacy,  first 
explored  the  wonderful  interior  of  the  caravan,  — 
there  was  a  dresser,  a  stove,  let-down  chairs  and 
tables  and  all  manner  of  things,  —  and  then  nursed 
the  kettle  to  the  singing  stage  on  the  patent 
cooker  while  the  beautiful  lady  reclined  close  at 
hand  on  a  rug. 

"Dick!''  she  said. 

He  had  forgotten  he  was  Dick. 

"Dick!" 

He  remembered  his  personality  with  a  start. 
"Yes,  miss!"  He  knelt  up,  with  a  handful  of 
twigs  in  his  hand  and  regarded  her. 

"Well,  Dick,"  she  said. 

He  remained  in  flushed  adoration.  There  was 
a  little  pause  and  the  lady  smiled  at  him  an  un- 
affected smile. 

"What  are  you  going  to  be,  Dick,  when  you 
grow  up?" 

"I  don't  know,  miss.     I've  wondered." 

"Wliat  would  you  like  to  be?" 

"Something  abroad.  Something  —  so  that  you 
could  see  things." 

"A  soldier?" 

"Or  a  sailor,  miss." 

"A  sailor  sees  nothing  but  the  sea." 

"I'd  rather  be  a  sailor  than  a  common  soldier, 
miss." 


THE  WANDERERS  81 

"You'd  like  to  be  an  officer  ?'' 

"Yes,  miss  —  only  — '^ 

"One  of  my  very  best  friends  is  an  officer/' 
she  said,  a  little  irrelevantly  it  seemed  to  Bealby. 

"I'd  be  a  Norficer  like  a  shot,"  said  Bealby, 
"if  I  'ad  'arf  a  chance,  miss." 

"Officers  nowadays,"  she  said,  "have  to  be 
very  brave,  able  men." 

"I  know,  miss,"  said  Bealby  modestly.  .  .  . 

The  fire  required  attention  for  a  little  while. 

The  lady  turned  over  on  her  elbow.  "What 
do  you  think  you  are  likely  to  be,  Dick!"  she 
asked. 

He  didn't  know. 

"What  sort  of  man  is  your  stepfather?  " 

Bealby  looked  at  her.  "He  isn't  much,"  he 
said. 

"What  is  he?" 

Bealby  hadn't  the  slightest  intention  of  being 
the  son  of  a  gardener.     "'E's  a  law-writer." 
What!  in  that  village." 

'E  'as  to  stay  there  for  'is  'ealth,  miss,"  he 
said.  "Every  summer.  'Is  'ealth  is  very  pre- 
precocious,  miss.  .  .  ." 

He  fed  his  fire  with  a  few  judiciously  ad- 
ministered twigs. 

"What  was  your  own  father,  Dick?" 

With  that  she  opened  a  secret  door  in  Bealby's 
imagination.  All  stepchildren  have  those  dreams. 
With  him  they  were  so  frequent  and  vivid  that 
they  had  long  since  become  a  kind  of  second 
truth.     He  coloured  a  little  and  answered  with 


(C  y 


82  BEALBY 

scarcely  an  interval  for  reflection.  "'E  passed 
as  Mal-travers/^  he  said. 

"Wasn't  that  his  name?'^ 

"I  don't  rightly  know,  miss.  There  was 
always  something  kep'  from  me.  My  mother 
used  to  say,  'Artie/  she  used  to  say:  'there's 
things  that  some  day  you  must  know,  things 
that  concern  you.  Things  about  your  farver. 
But  poor  as  we  are  now  and  struggling.  .  .  . 
Not  yet.  .  .  .  Some  day  you  shall  know  truly 
—  who  you  are.^    That  was  ^ow  she  said  it,  miss.'' 

"And  she  died  before  she  told  you?" 

He  had  almost  forgotten  that  he  had  killed  his 
mother  that  very  morning.  "Yes,  miss,"  he 
said. 

She  smiled  at  him  and  something  in  her  smile 
made  him  blush  hotly.  For  a  moment  he  could 
have  believed  she  understood.  And  indeed,  she 
did  understand,  and  it  amused  her  to  find  this  boy 
doing  —  what  she  herself  had  done  at  times  — 
what  indeed  she  felt  it  was  still  in  her  to  do.  She 
felt  that  most  delicate  of  sympathies,  the  sym- 
pathy of  one  rather  over-imaginative  person  for 
another.  But  her  next  question  dispelled  his 
doubt  of  her  though  it  left  him  red  and  hot.  She 
asked  it  with  a  convincing  simplicity. 

"Have  you  any  idea,  Dick,  have  you  any 
guess  or  suspicion,  I  mean,  who  it  is  you  really 
are?" 

"I  wish  I  had,  miss,"  he  said.  "I  suppose  it 
doesn't  matter,  really  —  but  one  can't  help 
wondering.  ..." 

How  often  he  had  wondered  in  his  lonely  wander- 


THE  WANDERERS  83 

ings  through  that  dear  city  of  day-dreams  where 
all  the  people  one  knows  look  out  of  windows  as 
one  passes  and  the  roads  are  paved  with  pride ! 
How  often  had  he  decided  and  changed  and  de- 
cided again ! 

§9 

Now  suddenly  a  realization  of  intrusion 
shattered  this  conversation.  A  third  person  stood 
over  the  little  encampment,  smiling  mysteriously 
and  waving  a  cleek  in  a  slow  hieratic  manner 
through  the  air. 

"De  licious  \i\V  cornV'  said  the  newcomer  in 
tones  of  benediction. 

He  met  their  enquiring  eyes  with  a  luxurious 
smile,  "Licious,"  he  said,  and  remained  swaying 
insecurely  and  faihng  to  express  some  imper- 
fectly apprehended  deep  meaning  by  short  pe- 
culiar movements  of  the  cleek. 

He  was  obviously  a  golfer  astray  from  some 
adjacent  course  —  and  he  had  lunched. 

"Mighty  Join  you,"  he  said,  and  then  very  dis- 
tinctly in  a  full  large  voice,  "Miss  Malleleine 
Philps."  There  are  the  penalties  of  a  public  and 
popular  life. 

"He^s  drunk/^  the  lady  whispered.  "Get  him 
to  go  away,  Dick.     I  can't  endure  drunken  men." 

She  stood  up  and  Bealby  stood  up.  He  ad- 
vanced in  front  of  her,  slowly  with  his  nose  in 
the  air,  extraordinarily  like  a  small  terrier  smell- 
ing at  a  strange  dog. 

"I  said  Mighty  Join-you,"  the  golfer  repeated. 
His  voice  was  richly  excessive.     He  was  a  big 


84  BEALBY 

heavy  man  with  a  short-cropped  moustache,  a 
great  deal  of  neck  and  dewlap  and  a  solemn 
expression. 

"Prup.  Be'r.  Introzuze  myself,"  he  remarked. 
He  tried  to  indicate  himself  by  waving  his  hand 
towards  himself;  but  finally  abandoned  the  attempt 
as  impossible.  "Ma'  Goo'  Soch'l  Poshishun/' 
he  said. 

Bealby  had  a  disconcerting  sense  of  retreating 
footsteps  behind  him.  He  glanced  over  his 
shoulder  and  saw  Miss  Philips  standing  at  the 
foot  of  the  steps  that  led  up  to  the  fastnesses 
of  the  caravan.  "Dick/'  she  cried  with  a  sharp 
note  of  alarm  in  her  voice,  "get  rid  of  that  man." 

A  moment  after  Bealby  heard  the  door  shut  and 
a  sound  of  a  key  in  its  lock.  He  concealed  his 
true  feelings  by  putting  his  arms  akimbo,  sticking 
his  legs  wider  apart  and  contemplating  the  task 
before  him  vdih  his  head  a  little  on  one  side.  He 
was  upheld  by  the  thought  that  the  yellow  cara- 
van had  a  window  looking  upon  him.  .  .  . 

The  newcomer  seemed  to  consider  the  ceremony 
of  introduction  completed,  "/  done  care  for 
goff,"  he  said,  almost  vaingloriously. 

He  waved  his  cleek  to  express  his  preference. 
"Natua,"  he  said  with  a  satisfaction  that  bordered 
on  fatuity. 

He  prepared  to  come  down  from  the  Httle  turfy 
crest  on  which  he  stood  to  the  encampment. 

"  'Ere  ! "  said  Bealby.     "  This  is  Private." 

The  golfer  indicated  by  solemn  movements 
of  the  cleek  that  this  was  understood  but  that 
other  considerations  overrode  it. 


THE  WANDERERS  88 

"You —  You  got  to  go!^'  cried  Bealby  in  a 
breathless  squeak.     "You  get  out  of  here/' 

The  golfer  waved  an  arm  as  who  should  say, 
"You  do  not  understand,  but  I  forgive  you," 
and  continued  to  advance  towards  the  fire. 
And  then  Bealby,  at  the  end  of  his  tact,  com- 
menced hostilities. 

He  did  so  because  he  felt  he  had  to  do  some- 
thing, and  he  did  not  know  what  else  to  do. 

"Wan'  nothin'  but  freoly  conversation  sushus 
custm'ry  webred  peel,''  the  golfer  was  saying,  and 
then  a  large  fragment  of  turf  hit  him  in  the  neck, 
burst  all  about  him  and  stopped  him  abruptly. 

He  remained  for  some  lengthy  moments  too 
astonished  for  words.  He  was  not  only  greatly 
surprised,  but  he  chose  to  appear  even  more 
surprised  than  he  was.  In  spite  of  the  brown- 
black  mould  upon  his  cheek  and  brow  and  a 
slight  displacement  of  his  cap,  he  achieved  a  sort 
of  dignity.  He  came  slowly  to  a  focus  upon 
Bealby,  who  stood  by  the  turf  pile  grasping  a 
second  missile.  The  cleek  was  extended  sceptre- 
wise. 

"Replace  the  —  Divot." 

"You  go  orf,"  said  Bealby.  "I'll  chuck  it  if 
you  don't.     I  tell  you  fair." 

"Replace  the  —  Divot,"  roared  the  golfer  again 
in  a  voice  of  extraordinary  power. 

"You  —  you  go  !"  said  Bealby. 

"Am  I  t'ask  you.  Third  time.  Reshpect  — 
Roos.  .  .  .     Replace  the  Divot." 

It  struck  him  fully  in  the  face. 

He  seemed  to  emerge  through  the  mould.     He 


86  BEALBY 

was  blinking  but  still  dignified.  "Tha'  —  was 
intentional,"  he  said. 

He  seemed  to  gather  himself  together.  ... 

Then  suddenly  and  with  a  surprising  nimbleness 
he  discharged  himself  at  Bealby.  He  came  with 
astonishing  swiftness.  He  got  within  a  foot  of 
him.  Well,  it  was  for  Bealby  that  he  had  learnt 
to  dodge  in  the  village  playground.  He  went 
down  under  the  golfer's  arm  and  away  round 
the  end  of  the  stack,  and  the  golfer  with  his 
force  spent  in  concussion  remained  for  a  time 
clinging  to  the  turf  pile  and  apparently  trying  to 
remember  how  he  got  there.  Then  he  was  re- 
minded of  recent  occurrences  by  a  shrill  small 
voice  from  the  other  side  of  the  stack. 

"You  gow  away!"  said  the  voice.  "Can't 
you  see  you're  annoying  a  lady  ?    You  gow  away." 

"Nowish  —  'noy  anyone.     Pease  wall  wirl." 

But  this  was  subterfuge.  He  meant  to  catch 
that  boy.  Suddenly  and  rather  brilliantly  he 
turned  the  flank  of  the  turf  pile  and  only  a  couple  of 
loose  turfs  at  the  foot  of  the  heap  upset  his  calcula- 
tions. He  found  himself  on  all  fours  on  ground 
from  which  it  was  difficult  to  rise.  But  he  did 
not  lose  heart.  "  Boy  —  hie  —  scow,"  he  said,  and 
became  for  a  second  rush  a  nimble  quadruped. 

Again  he  got  quite  astonishingly  near  to  Bealby, 
and  then  in  an  instant  was  on  his  feet  and  running 
across  the  encampment  after  him.  He  succeeded 
in  kicking  over  the  kettle,  and  the  patent  cooker, 
without  any  injury  to  himself  or  loss  of  pace, 
and  succumbed  only  to  the  sharp  turn  behind  the 
end  of  the  caravan  and  the  steps.     He  hadn't 


THE  WANDERERS  87 

somehow  thought  of  the  steps.  So  he  went  down 
rather  heavily.  But  now  the  spirit  of  a  fine  man 
was  roused.  Regardless  of  the  scream  from 
inside  that  had  followed  his  collapse^  he  was  up 
and  in  pursuit  almost  instantly.  Bealby  only 
escaped  the  swiftness  of  his  rush  by  jumping  the 
shafts  and  going  away  across  the  front  of  the  cara- 
van to  the  turf  pile  again.  The  golfer  tried  to 
jump  the  shafts  too,  but  he  was  not  equal  to 
that.  He  did  in  a  manner  jump.  But  it  was  al- 
most as  much  diving  as  jumping.  And  there  was 
something  in  it  almost  like  the  curvetting  of  a 
Great  Horse.  .  .  . 

When  Bealby  turned  at  the  crash,  the  golfer 
was  already  on  all  fours  again  and  trying  very 
busily  to  crawl  out  between  the  shaft  and  the 
front  wheel.  He  would  have  been  more  successful 
in  doing  this  if  he  had  not  begun  by  putting  his 
arm  through  theVheel.  As  it  was,  he  was  trying 
to  do  too  much ;  he  was  trying  to  crawl  out  at 
two  points  at  once  and  getting  very  rapidly 
annoyed  at  his  inability  to  do  so.  The  caravan 
was  shifting  slowly  forward.  .  .  . 

It  was  manifest  to  Bealby  that  getting  this  man 
to  go  was  likely  to  be  a  much  more  lengthy  busi- 
ness than  he  had  supposed. 

He  surveyed  the  situation  for  a  moment,  and 
then  realizing  the  entanglement  of  his  opponent, 
he  seized  a  camp-stool  by  one  leg,  went  round  by 
the  steps  and  attacked  the  prostrate  enemy 
from  the  rear  with  effectual  but  inconclusive 
fury.     He  hammered.  .  .  . 

" Steady  on,  young  man,''  said  a  voice,  and  he 


88  BEALBY 

was  seized  from  behind.  He  turned  —  to  dis- 
cover himself  in  the  grip  of  a  second  golfer.  .  .  . 

Another !     Bealby  fought  in  a  fury  of  fear.  .  .  . 

He  bit  an  arm  —  rather  too  tweedy  to  feel  much 
—  and  got  in  a  couple  of  shinners  —  alas !  that 
they  were  only  slippered  shinners !  —  before  he 
was  overpowered.  .  .  . 

A  cuffed,  crumpled,  disarmed  and  panting 
Bealby  found  himself  watching  the  careful  ex- 
traction of  the  first  golfer  from  the  front  wheel. 
Two  friends  assisted  that  gentleman  with  a 
reproachful  gentleness,  and  his  repeated  state- 
ments that  he  was  all  right  seemed  to  reassure 
them  greatly.  Altogether  there  were  now  four 
golfers  in  the  field,  counting  the  pioneer. 

"He  was  after  this  devil  of  a  boy,''  said  the  one 
who  held  Bealby. 

"Yes,  but  how  did  he  get  here?"  asked  the  man 
who  was  gripping  Bealby. 

"Feel  better  now?"  said  the  third,  helping  the 
first  comer  to  his  uncertain  feet.  "Let  me  have 
your  cleek  o,  man.  .  .  .  You  won't  want  your 
cleek.  .  .  ." 

Across  the  heather,  lifting  their  heads  a  little, 
came  Mrs.  Bowles  and  Mrs.  Geedge,  returning 
from  their  walk.  They  were  wondering  who- 
ever their  visitors  could  be. 

And  then  like  music  after  a  dispute  came 
Madeleine  Philips,  a  beautiful  blue-robed  thing, 
coming  slowly  with  a  kind  of  wonder  on  her  face, 
out  of  the  caravan  and  down  the  steps.  In- 
stinctively everybody  turned  to  her.  The  drunk- 
ard   with  a  gesture    released    himself    from    his 


(( 


THE  WANDERERS  89 

supporter  and  stood  erect.  His  cap  was  re- 
placed upon  him  —  obliquely.  His  cleek  had 
been  secured. 

"I  heard  a  noise/'  said  Madeleine,  lifting  her 
pretty  chin  and  speaking  in  her  sweetest  tones. 
She  looked  her  enquiries.  .  .  . 

She  surveyed  the  three  sober  men  with  a  prac- 
tised eye.  She  chose  the  tallest,  a  fair,  serious- 
looking  young  man  standing  conveniently  at 
the  drunkard's  elbow. 

"Will  you  please  take  your  friend  away,"  she 
said,  indicating  the  offender  with  her  beautiful 
white  hand. 

"Simly,"  he  said  in  a  slightly  subdued  voice, 

simly  coring.'' 

Everybody  tried  for  a  moment  to  understand 
him. 

"Look  here,  old  man,  you've  got  no  business 
here,"  said  the  fair  young  man.  "You'd  better 
come  back  to  the  club  house." 

The  drunken  man  stuck  to  his  statement. 
"Simly  coring,"  he  said  a  little  louder. 

"I  think/'  said  a  little  bright-eyed  man  with  a 
very  cheerful  yellow  vest,  "I  think  he's  apolo- 
gizing.    I  hope  so." 

The  drunken  man  nodded  his  head.  That 
among  other  matters. 

The  tall  young  man  took  his  arm,  but  he  in- 
sisted on  his  point.  "Simly  coring,"  he  said 
with  emphasis.  "If  —  if  —  done  wan'  me  to  cor. 
Notome.  Nottot.  .  .  .  Mean'  say.  Nottot 
tat-tome.  Nottotome.  Orny  way  —  sayin' 
not-ome.    No  wish  'trude.     No  wish  'all." 


90  BEALBY 

"Well,  then,  you  see,  you'd  better  come  away." 

"I  ars''  you  —  are  you  tome?  Miss  —  Miss 
Pips."     He  appealed  to  Miss  Philips. 

"If  you'd  answer  him — "  said  the  tall  young 
man. 

"No,  sir,"  she  said  with  great  dignity  and  the 
pretty  chin  higher  than  ever.  "I  am  not  at 
home." 

"Nuthin'  more  t'  say  then,"  said  the  drunken 
man,  and  with  a  sudden  stoicism  he  turned  away. 

"Come,"  he  said,  submitting  to  support. 

"Simly  orny  arfnoon  cor,"  he  said  generally 
and  permitted  himself  to  be  led  off. 

"Orny  frenly  cor.  ..." 

For  some  time  he  was  audible  as  he  receded, 
explaining  in  a  rather  condescending  voice  the 
extreme  social  correctness  of  his  behaviour.  Just 
for  a  moment  or  so  there  was  a  slight  tussle,  due 
to  his  desire  to  return  and  leave  cards.  .  .  . 

He  was  afterwards  seen  to  be  distributing  a 
small  handful  of  visiting  cards  amidst  the  heather 
with  his  free  arm,  rather  in  the  manner  of  a  paper 
chase  —  but  much  more  gracefully.  .  .  . 

Then  decently  and  in  order  he  was  taken  out  of 
sight.  .  .  . 

§10 

Bealby  had  been  unostentatiously  released  by  his 
captor  as  soon  as  Miss  Philips  appeared,  and  the 
two  remaining  golfers  now  addressed  themselves 
to  the  three  ladies  in  regret  and  explanation. 

The  man  who  had  held  Bealby  was  an  aquiline 
grey-clad  person  with  a  cascade  moustache  and 


THE  WANDERERS  91 

wrinkled  eyes,  and  for  some  obscure  reason  he 
seemed  to  be  amused ;  the  Httle  man  in  the  yellow 
vest,  however,  was  quite  earnest  and  serious 
enough  to  make  up  for  him.  He  was  one  of 
those  little  fresh-coloured  men  whose  faces  stick 
forward  openly.  He  had  open  projecting  eyes, 
an  open  mouth,  his  cheeks  were  frank  to  the  pitch 
of  ostentation,  his  cap  was  thrust  back  from  his 
exceptionally  open  forehead.  He  had  a  chest 
and  a  stomach.  There,  too,  he  held  out.  He 
would  have  held  out  anything.  His  legs  leant 
forward  from  the  feet.  It  was  evidently  im- 
possible for  a  man  of  his  nature  to  be  anything 
but  clean  shaved.  .  .  . 

"Our  fault  entirely,"  he  said.  "Ought  to 
have  looked  after  him.  Can't  say  how  sorry 
and  ashamed  we  are.  Can't  say  how  sorry  we 
are  he  caused  you  any  inconvenience." 

"Of  course,"  said  Mrs.  Bowles,  "our  boy- 
servant  ought  not  to  have  pelted  him." 

"He  didn't  exactly  pelt  him,  dear,"  said  Made- 
leine. .  .  . 

"Well,  anyhow  our  friend  ought  not  to  have 
been  off  his  chain.  It  was  our  affair  to  look  after 
him  and  we  didn't.  .  .  . 

"You  see,"  the  open  young  man  went  on,  with 
the  air  of  lucid  explanation,  "he's  our  worst 
player.  And  he  got  round  in  a  hundred  and 
twenty-seven.  And  beat  —  somebody.  And  — 
it's  upset  him.  It's  not  a  bit  of  good  dis- 
guising that  we've  been  letting  him  drink.  .  .  . 
We  have.  To  begin  with,  we  encouraged  him. 
.  •  .     We  oughtn't   to  have  let  him  go.     But 


92  BEALBY 

we  thought  a  walk  alone  might  do  him  good. 
And  some  of  us  were  a  bit  off  him.  Fed  up 
rather.  You  see  he'd  been  singing,  would]  go  on 
singing.  ..." 

He  went  on  to  propitiations.  "Anything  the 
club  can  do  to  show  how  we  regret.  ...  If 
you  would  like  to  pitch  —  later  on  in  our  rough 
beyond  the  pinewoods.  .  .  .  You'd  find  it  safe 
and  secluded.  .  .  .  Custodian  —  most  civil  man. 
Get  you  water  or  anything  you  wanted.  Es- 
pecially after  all  that  has  happened.  ..." 

Bealby  took  no  further  part  in  these  concluding 
politenesses.  He  had  a  curious  feeling  in  his 
mind  that  perhaps  he  had  not  managed  this 
affair  quite  so  well  as  he  might  have  done.  He 
ought  to  have  been  more  tactful  like,  more  per- 
suasive. He  was  a  fool  to  have  started  chuck- 
ing. .  .  .  Well,  well.  He  picked  up  the  over- 
turned kettle  and  went  off  down  the  hill  to  get 
water.  .   .  . 

What  had  she  thought  of  him?  .  .  . 

In  the  meantime  one  can  at  least  boil  kettles. 

§11 

One  consequence  of  this  little  incident  of  the 
rejoicing  golfer  was  that  the  three  ladies  were  no 
longer  content  to  dismiss  William  and  Bealby 
at  nightfall  and  sleep  unprotected  in  the  caravan. 
And  this  time  their  pitch  was  a  lonely  one  with 
only  the  golf  club-house  within  call.  They  were 
inclined  even  to  distrust  the  golf  club.  So  it 
was  decided,  to  his  great  satisfaction,  that  Bealby 


THE  WANDERERS  93 

should  have  a  certain  sleeping  sack  Mrs.  Bowles 
had  brought  with  her  and  that  he  should  sleep 
therein  between  the  wheels. 

This  sleeping  sack  was  to  have  been  a  great 
feature  of  the  expedition,  but  when  it  came  to 
the  test  Judy  could  not  use  it.  She  had  not  an- 
ticipated that  feeling  of  extreme  publicity  the 
open  air  gives  one  at  first.  It  was  like  having 
all  the  world  in  one^s  bedroom.  Ev^y  night 
she  had  relapsed  into  the  caravan. 

Bealby  did  not  mind  what  they  did  with  him 
so  long  as  it  meant  sleeping.  He  had  had  a 
long  day  of  it.  He  undressed  sketchily  and 
wriggled  into  the  nice  woolly  bag  and  lay  for  a 
moment  listening  to  the  soft  bumpings  that  were 
going  on  overhead.  She  was  there.  He  had 
the  instinctive  confidence  of  our  sex  in  women, 
and  here  were  three  of  them.  He  had  a  vague 
idea  of  getting  out  of  his  bag  again  and  kissing 
the  underside  of  the  van  that  held  this  dear 
beautiful  creature.  .  .  . 

He  didn^t.  .  .  . 

Such  a  lot  of  things  had  happened  that  day  — 
and  the  day  before.  He  had  been  going  without 
intermission,  it  seemed  now  for  endless  hours. 
He  thought  of  trees,  roads,  dew-wet  grass,  frying- 
pans,  pursuing  packs  of  gigantic  butlers  hope- 
lessly at  fault,  —  no  doubt  they  were  hunting 
now  —  chinks  and  crannies,  tactless  missiles  fly- 
ing, bursting,  missiles  it  was  vain  to  recall.  He 
stared  for  a  few  seconds  through  the  wheel  spokes 
at  the  dancing,  crackling  fire  of  pine-cones  which 
it  had  been  his  last  duty  to  replenish,  stared  and 


d4  BEALBY 

blinked  much  as  a  little  dog  might  do  and  then  he 
had  slipped  away  altogether  into  the  world  of 
dreams.  .  .  . 

§  12 

In  the  morning  he  was  extraordinarily  hard  to 
wake.  .  .  . 

"Is  it  after  sleeping  all  day  ye'd  be?"  cried 
Judy  Bowles,  who  was  always  at  her  most  Irish 
about  breakfast  time. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE   UNOBTRUSIVE   PARTING 

§1 

Monday  was  a  happy  day  for  Bealby. 

The  caravan  did  seventeen  miles  and  came  to 
rest  at  last  in  a  sloping  field  outside  a  cheerful 
little  village  set  about  a  green  on  which  was  a 
long  tent  professing  to  be  a  theatre.  ...  At 
the  first  stopping-place  that  possessed  a  general 
shop  Mrs.  Bowles  bought  Bealby  a  pair  of  boots. 
Then  she  had  a  bright  idea.  "Got  any  pocket 
money,  Dick?"  she  asked. 

She  gave  him  half  a  crown,  that  is  to  say  she 
gave  him  two  shillings  and  sixpence,  or  five 
sixpences  or  thirty  pennies — i according  as  you 
choose  to  look  at  it  —  in  one  large  undivided 
shining  coin. 

Even  if  he  had  not  been  in  love,  here  surely  was 
incentive  to  a  generous  nature  to  help  and  do 
distinguished  services.  He  dashed  about  doing 
things.  The  little  accident  on  Sunday  had 
warned  him  to  be  careful  of  the  plates,  and  the 
only  flaw  upon  a  perfect  day's  service  was  the 
dropping  of  an  egg  on  its  way  to  the  frying-pan 
for  supper.  It  remained  where  it  fell  and  there 
presently  he  gave  it  a  quiet  burial.  There  was 
nothing  else  to  be  done  with  it.  .  .  . 

95 


96  BEALBY 

All  day  long  at  intervals  Miss  Philips  smiled 
at  him  and  made  him  do  little  services  for  her. 
And  in  the  evening,  after  the  custom  of  her 
great  profession  when  it  keeps  holiday,  she  in- 
sisted on  going  to  the  play.  She  said  it  would 
be  the  loveliest  fun.  She  went  with  Mrs.  Bowles 
because  Mrs.  Geedge  wanted  to  sit  quietly  in 
the  caravan  and  write  down  a  few  little  things 
while  they  were  still  fresh  in  her  mind.  And 
it  wasn't  in  the  part  of  Madeleine  Philips  not  to 
insist  that  both  William  and  Bealby  must  go 
too ;  she  gave  them  each  a  shilling  —  though 
the  prices  were  sixpence,  threepence,  two-pence 
and  a  penny  —  and  Bealby  saw  his  first  real 
play. 

It  was  called  Brothers  in  Blood,  or  the  Gentleman 
Ranker.  There  was  a  poster  —  which  was  only 
very  slightly  justified  by  the  performance  —  of 
a  man  in  khaki  with  a  bandaged  head  proposing 
to  sell  his  life  dearly  over  a  fallen  comrade. 

One  went  to  the  play  through  an  open  and 
damaged  field  gate  and  across  trampled  turf. 
Outside  the  tent  were  two  paraffin  flares  illuminat- 
ing the  poster  and  a  small  cluster  of  the  impecu- 
nious young.  Within  on  grass  that  was  worn  and 
bleached  were  benches,  a  gathering  audience,  a 
piano  played  by  an  off-hand  lady,  and  a  drop 
scene  displaying  the  Grand  Canal,  Venice.  The 
Grand  Canal  was  infested  by  a  crowded  multitude 
of  zealous  and  excessive  reflections  of  the  palaces 
above  and  by  peculiar  crescentic  black  boats 
floating  entirely  out  of  water  and  having  no 
reflections    at    all.     The   off-hand   lady   gave   a 


THE  UNOBTRUSIVE  PARTING  97 

broad  impression  of  the  wedding  march  in  Lohen- 
grin, and  the  back  seats  assisted  by  a  sort  of 
gastric  vocalization  called  humming  and  by 
whistling  between  the  teeth.  Madeleine  Philips 
evidently  found  it  tremendous  fun,  even  before 
the  curtain  rose. 

And  then  —  illusion.  .  .  . 

The  scenery  was  ridiculous ;  it  waved  about, 
the  actors  and  actresses  were  surely  the  most  piti- 
ful of  their  tribe  and  every  invention  in  the  play 
impossible,  but  the  imagination  of  Bealby,  like  the 
lovingkindness  of  God,  made  no  difficulties ;  it 
rose  and  met  and  embraced  and  gave  life  to  all 
these  things.  It  was  a  confused  story  in  the  play, 
everybody  was  more  or  less  somebody  else  all 
the  way  through,  and  it  got  more  confused  in 
Bealby's  mind,  but  it  was  clear  from  the  outset 
that  there  was  vile  work  afoot,  nets  spread  and 
sweet  simple  people  wronged.  And  never  were 
sweet  and  simple  people  quite  so  sweet  and  simple. 
There  was  the  wrongful  brother  who  was  weak 
and  wicked  and  the  rightful  brother  who  was 
vindictively,  almost  viciously,  good,  and  there  was 
an  ingrained  villain  who  was  a  baronet,  a  man 
who  wore  a  frock  coat  and  a  silk  hat  and  carried 
gloves  and  a  stick  in  every  scene  and  upon  all 
occasions  —  that  sort  of  man.  He  looked  askance, 
always.  There  was  a  dear  simple  girl,  with  a  vast 
sweet  smile,  who  was  loved  according  to  their 
natures  by  the  wrongful  and  the  rightful  brother, 
and  a  large  wicked  red-clad,  lip-biting  woman 
whose  passions  made  the  crazy  little  stage  quiver. 
There  was  a  comic  butler  —  very  different  stuff 


98  BEALBY 

from  old  Mergleson  —  who  wore  an  evening  coat 
and  plaid  trousers  and  nearly  choked  Bealby. 
Why  weren't  all  butlers  like  that?  Funny. 
And  there  were  constant  denunciations.  Always 
there  were  denunciations  going  on  or  denuncia- 
tions impending.  That  took  Bealby  particu- 
larly. Never  surely  in  all  the  world  were  bad 
people  so  steadily  and  thoroughly  scolded  and 
told  what.  Everybody  hissed  them;  Bealby 
hissed  them.  And  when  they  were  told  what, 
he  applauded.  And  yet  they  kept  on  with 
their  wickedness  to  the  very  curtain.  They 
retired  —  askance  to  the  end.  Foiled  but  pur- 
suing.    "A  time  will  come/'  they  said. 

There  was  a  moment  in  the  distresses  of  the 
heroine  when  Bealby  dashed  aside  a  tear.  And 
then  at  last  most  wonderfully  it  all  came  right. 
The  company  lined  up  and  hoped  that  Bealby 
was  satisfied.  Bealby  wished  he  had  more  hands. 
His  heart  seemed  to  fill  his  body.  Oh  prime! 
prime!  .  .  . 

And  out  he  came  into  the  sympathetic  night. 
But  he  was  no  longer  a  trivial  Bealby ;  his  soul 
was  purged,  he  was  a  strong  and  silent  man, 
ready  to  explode  into  generous  repartee  or  nerve 
himself  for  high  endeavour.  He  slipped  off  in 
the  opposite  direction  from  the  caravan  be- 
cause he  wanted  to  be  alone  for  a  time  and  feel. 
He  did  not  want  to  jar  upon  a  sphere  of  glorious 
illusion  that  had  blown  up  in  his  mind  like  a 
bubble.  .  .  . 

He  was  quite  sure  that  he  had  been  wronged. 
Not  to  be  wronged  is  to  forego  the  first  privilege 


THE  UNOBTRUSIVE  PARTING  99 

of  goodness.  He  had  been  deeply  wronged  by 
a  plot,  —  all  those  butlers  were  in  the  plot  or 
why  should  they  have  chased  him,  —  he  was 
much  older  than  he  really  was,  it  had  been  kept 
from  him,  and  in  truth  he  was  a  rightful  earl. 
"Earl  Shonts,''  he  whispered;  and  indeed,  why 
not  ?  And  Madeleine  too  had  been  wronged ; 
she  had  been  reduced  to  wander  in  this  uncom- 
fortable caravan ;  this  Gipsy  Queen ;  she  had 
been  brought  to  it  by  villains,  the  same  villains 
who  had  wronged  Bealby.  .  .  . 

Out  he  went  into  the  night,  the  kindly  consent- 
ing summer  night,  where  there  is  nothing  to  be 
seen  or  heard  that  will  contradict  these  delicious 
wonderful  persuasions. 

He  was  so  full  of  these  dreams  that  he  strayed 
far  away  along  the  dark  country  lanes  and  had 
at  last  the  utmost  difficulty  in  finding  his  way 
back  to  the  caravan.  And  when  ultimately  he  got 
back  after  hours  and  hours  of  heroic  existence  it 
did  not  even  seem  that  they  had  missed  him.  It 
did  not  seem  that  he  had  been  away  half  an 
hour. 

§2 

Tuesday  was  not  so  happy  a  day  for  Bealby 
as  Monday. 

Its  shadows  began  when  Mrs.  Bowles  asked 
him  in  a  friendly  tone  when  it  was  clean-collar  day. 

He  was  unready  with  his  answer. 

"And  don't  you  ever  use  a  hair  brush,  Dick?" 
she  asked.  "I'm  sure  now  there's  one  in  your 
parcel." 


100  BEALBY 

"I  do  use  it  sometimes,  Mum/'  he  admitted. 

"And  IVe  never  detected  you  with  a  tooth- 
brush yet.  Though  that  perhaps  is  extreme. 
And  Dick  —  soap  ?  I  think  you^d  better  be  let- 
ting me  give  you  a  cake  of  soap." 

"I'd  be  very  much  obHged,   Mum." 

"I  hardly  dare  hint,  Dick,  at  a  clean  hand- 
kerchief.    Such  things  are  known." 

"  If  you  wouldn't  mind  —  when  IVe  got  the 
breakfast  things  done,   Mum.  .  .  ." 

The  thing  worried  him  all  through  breakfast. 
He  had  not  expected  —  personalities  from  Mrs. 
Bowles.  More  particularly  personalities  of  this 
kind.     He  felt  he  had  to  think  hard. 

He  affected  modesty  after  he  had  cleared  away 
breakfast  and  carried  off  his  little  bundle  to  a 
point  in  the  stream  which  was  masked  from  the 
encampment  by  willows.  With  him  he  also 
brought  that  cake  of  soap.  He  began  by  washing 
his  handkerchief,  which  was  bad  policy  because  that 
left  him  no  dry  towel  but  his  jacket.  He  ought, 
he  perceived,  to  have  secured  a  dish-cloth  or  a 
newspaper.  (This  he  must  remember  on  the 
next  occasion.)  He  did  over  his  hands  and  the 
more  exposed  parts  of  his  face  with  soap  and 
jacket.  Then  he  took  off  and  examined  his  col- 
lar.    It  certainly  was  pretty  bad.  .  .  . 

"Why!"  cried  Mrs.  Bowles  when  he  returned, 
"that's  still  the  same  collar." 

"They  all  seem  to've  got  crumpled 'm,"  said 
Bealby. 

"But  are  they  all  as  dirty? 

"I   'ad   some   blacking   in   my   parcel,"    said 


?/ 


THE  UNOBTRUSITE  PARl'ING         101 

Bealby,  ^'and  it  got  loose,  Mum.  I'll  have  to 
get  another  collar  when  we  come  to  a  shop." 

It  was  a  financial  sacrifice,  but  it  was  the  only 
way,  and  when  they  came  to  the  shop  Bealby 
secured  a  very  nice  collar  indeed,  high  with 
pointed  turn-down  corners,  so  that  it  cut  his 
neck  all  round,  jabbed  him  under  the  chin  and 
gave  him  a  proud  upcast  carriage  of  the  head 
that  led  to  his  treading  upon  and  very  completely 
destroying  a  stray  plate  while  preparing  lunch. 
But  it  was  more  of  a  man's  collar,  he  felt,  than 
anything  he  had  ever  worn  before.  And  it  cost 
sixpence  halfpenny,   six  dee  and  a  half. 

(I  should  have  mentioned  that  while  washing 
up  the  breakfast  things  he  had  already  broken 
the  handle  off  one  of  the  breakfast  cups.  Both 
these  accidents  deepened  the  cloud  upon  his  day.) 

And  then  there  was  the  trouble  of  William. 
William  having  meditated  upon  the  differences 
between  them  for  a  day  had  now  invented  an 
activity.  As  Bealby  sat  beside  him  behind  the 
white  horse  he  was  suddenly  and  frightfully 
pinched.     Gee!    One  wanted  to  yelp. 

"Choc'late,"  said  William  through  his  teeth 
and  very  very  savagely.     ^^Now  then.'' 

After  William  had  done  that  twice  Bealby 
preferred  to  walk  beside  the  caravan.  There- 
upon William  whipped  up  the  white  horse  and 
broke  records  and  made  all  the  crockery  sing  to- 
gether and  forced  the  pace  until  he  was  spoken 
to  by  Mrs.  Bowles.  .  .  . 

It  was  upon  a  Bealby  thus  depressed  and 
worried  that  the  rumour  of  impending  "men- 


'i02  BEALBY 

folk"  came.  It  began  after  the  party  had  stopped 
for  letters  at  a  village  post  office;  there  were 
not  only  letters  but  a  telegram,  that  Mrs.  Bowles 
read  with  her  spats  far  apart  and  her  head  on 
one  side.  "Ye'd  like  to  know  about  it/'  she  said 
waggishly  to  Miss  Philips,  "and  you  just  shan't.'' 

She  then  went  into  her  letters. 

"You've  got  some  news,"  said  Mrs.  Geedge. 

"I  have  that,"  said  Mrs.  Bowles,  and  not  a 
word  more  could  they  get  from  her.  .  .  . 

"I'll  keep  my  news  no  longer,"  said  Mrs. 
Bowles,  lighting  her  cigarette  after  lunch  as 
Bealby  hovered  about  clearing  away  the  banana 
skins  and  suchlike  vestiges  of  dessert.  "To- 
morrow night  as  ever  is,  if  so  be  we  get  to  Win- 
thorpe-Sutbury,   there'll   be   Men   among   us." 

"But  Tom's  not  coming,"  said  Mrs.  Geedge. 

"He  asked  Tim  to  tell  me  to  tell  you." 

"And  you've  kept  it  these  two  hours,  Judy." 

"For  your  own  good  and  peace  of  mind.  But 
now  the  murther's  out.  Come  they  will,  your 
Man  and  my  Man,  pretending  to  a  pity  because 
they  can't  do  without  us.  But  like  the  self- 
indulgent  monsters  they  are,  they  must  needs 
stop  at  some  grand  hotel,  Redlake  he  calls  it, 
the  Royal,  on  the  hill  above  Winthorpe-Sutbury. 
The  Royal !  The  very  name  describes  it.  Can't 
you  see  the  lounge,  girls,  with  its  white  cane 
chairs  ?  And  saddlebacks !  No  other  hotel  it 
seems  is  good  enough  for  them,  and  we  if  you 
please  are  asked  to  go  in  and  have  —  what  does 
the  man  call  it  —  the  '  comforts  of  decency '  — 
and  let  the  caravan  rest  for  a  bit." 


THE  UNOBTRUSIVE  PARTING  103 

"Tim  promised  me  I  should  run  wild  as  long 
as  I  chose/'  said  Mrs.  Geedge,  looking  anything 
but  wild. 

"They're  after  thinking  weVe  had  enough  of 
it/'  said  Mrs.  Bowles. 

"It  sounds  like  that." 

"Sure  I'd  go  on  like  this  for  ever,"  said  Judy. 
"'Tis  the  Man  and  the  House  and  all  of  it  that 
oppresses  me.     Vans  for  Women.  .  .  ." 

"Let's  not  go  to  Winthorpe-Sutbury/'  said 
Madeleine. 

(The  first  word  of  sense  Bealby  had  heard.) 

"Ah!"  said  Mrs.  Bowles  archly,  "who  knows 
but  what  there'll  be  a  Man  for  you?  Some 
sort  of  Man  anyhow." 

(Bealby  thought  that  a  most  improper  remark.) 

"I  want  no  man." 

"Ah!"   ' 

"Why  do  you  say  Ah  like  that?"  .^ 

"Because  I  mean  Ah  like  that."  ' 

"Meaning?" 

"Just  that." 

Miss  Philips  eyed  Mrs.  Bowles  and  Mrs.  Bowles 
eyed  Miss  Philips. 

"Judy,"  she  said,  "you've  got  something  up 
your  sleeve." 

"Where  it's  perfectly  comfortable,"  said  Mrs. 
Bowles. 

And  then  quite  maddeningly,   she    remarked, 

Will  you  be  after  washing  up  presently,  Dick?" 
and  looked  at  him  with  a  roguish  quiet  over  her 
cigarette.  It  was  necessary  to  disabuse  her 
mind  at  once  of  the  idea  that  he  had  been  listen- 


(C 


104  BEALBY 

ing.  He  took  up  the  last  few  plates  and  went 
off  to  the  washing  place  by  the  stream.  All  the 
rest  of  that  conversation  had  to  be  lost. 

Except  that  as  he  came  back  for  the  Hudson^s 
soap  he  heard  Miss  Philips  say,  "Keep  your  old 
Men.  I'll  just  console  myself  with  Dick,  my 
dears.     Making   such    a    Mystery!^' 

To  which  Mrs.  Bowles  replied  darkly,  "She 
little  knows.  ..." 

A  kind  of  consolation  was  to  be  got  from  that. 
•  .  .     But  what  was  it  she  little    knew?  .  .  . 

§3 

The  men-folk  when  they  came  were  nothing 
so  terrific  to  the  sight  as  Bealby  had  expected. 
And  thank  Heaven  there  were  only  two  of  them 
and  each  assigned.  Something  he  perceived  was 
said  about  someone  else,  he  couldn't  quite  catch 
what,  but  if  there  was  to  have  been  someone 
else,  at  any  rate  there  now  wasn't.  Professor 
Bowles  was  animated  and  Mr.  Geedge  was  grace- 
fully cold,  they  kissed  their  wives  but  not  offen- 
sively, and  there  was  a  chattering  pause  while 
Bealby  walked  on  beside  the  caravan.  They 
were  on  the  bare  road  that  runs  along  the  high 
ridge  above  Winthorpe-Sutbury,  and  the  men 
had  walked  to  meet  them  from  some  hotel  or 
other  —  Bealby  wasn't  clear  about  that  —  by 
the  golf  links.  Judy  was  the  life  and  soul  of  the 
encounter,  and  all  for  asking  the  men  what  they 
meant  by  intruding  upon  three  independent 
women  who,  sure-alive,  could  very  well  do  with- 


THE  UNOBTRUSIVE  PARTING  105 

out  them.  Professor  Bowles  took  her  pretty 
calmly,  and  seemed  on  the  whole  to  admire  her. 

Professor  Bowles  was  a  compact  little  man 
wearing  spectacles  with  alternative  glasses,  partly 
curved,  partly  flat ;  he  was  hairy  and  dressed  in 
that  sort  of  soft  tweedy  stuff  that  ravels  out  — 
he  seemed  to  have  been  sitting  among  thorns  — 
and  baggy  knickerbockers  with  straps  and  very 
thick  stockings  and  very  sensible,  open-air,  in 
fact  quite  mountainous,  boots.  And  yet  though 
he  was  short  and  stout  and  active  he  had  a  kind 
of  authority  about  him,  and  it  was  clear  that  for 
all  her  persuasiveness  his  wife  merely  ran  over 
him  like  a  creeper  without  making  any  great 
difference  to  him.  "I've  found,"  he  said,  "the 
perfect  place  for  your  encampment."  She  had 
been  making  suggestions.  And  presently  he  left 
the  ladies  and  came  hurrying  after  the  caravan  to 
take  control. 

He  was  evidently  a   very  controlling  person. 

"Here,  you  get  down,"  he  said  to  William. 
"That  poor  beast's  got  enough  to  pull  without 

And  when  William  mumbled  he  said,  "Hey?" 
in  such  a  shout  that  William  for  ever  after  held 
his  peace. 

"Where  dVou  come  from,  you  boy,  you?" 
he  asked  suddenly,  and  Bealby  looked  to  Mrs. 
Bowles  to  explain. 

"Great  silly  collar  you've  got,"  said  the  Pro- 
fessor, interrupting  her  reply.  "Boy  like  this 
ought  to  wear  a  wool  shirt.  Dirty  too.  Take  it 
off,  boy.    It's  choking  you.     Don't  you  feel  it?" 


106  BEALBY 

Then  he  went  on  to  make  trouble  about  the 
tackle  William  had  rigged  to  contain  the  white 
horse. 

"This  harness  makes  me  sick/'  said  Professor 
Bowles.     "It's  worse  than  Italy.  .  .  .'' 

"Ah!''  he  cried  and  suddenly  darted  off  across 
the  turf,  going  inelegantly  and  very  rapidly, 
with  peculiar  motions  of  the  head  and  neck  as 
he  brought  first  the  flat  and  then  the  curved 
surface  of  his  glasses  into  play.  Finally  he 
dived  into  the  turf,  remained  scrabbling  on  all 
fours  for  a  moment  or  so,  became  almost  still 
for  the  fraction  of  a  minute  and  then  got  up  and 
returned  to  his  wife,  holding  in  an  exquisite  man- 
ner something  that  struggled  between  his  finger 
and  his  thumb. 

"That's  the  third  to-day,"  he  said,  trium- 
phantly.    "They  swarm  here.     It's  a  migration." 

Then  he  resumed  his  penetrating  criticism  of 
the  caravan  outfit. 

"That  boy,"  he  said  suddenly  with  his  glasses 
oblique,  "hasn't  taken  off  his  collar  yet." 

Bealby  revealed  the  modest  secrets  of  his  neck 
and  pocketed  the  collar.  .  .  . 

Mr.  Geedge  did  not  appear  to  observe  Bealby. 
He  was  a  man  of  the  super-aquiline  type  with  a 
nose  like  a  rudder,  he  held  his  face  as  if  it  was 
a  hatchet  in  a  procession,  and  walked  with  the 
dignity  of  a  man  of  honour.  You  could  see  at 
once  he  was  a  man  of  honour.  Inflexibly,  invin- 
cibly, he  was  a  man  of  honour.  You  felt  that 
anywhes,  in  a  fire,  in  an  earthquake,  in  a  railway 
accident  when  other  people  would  be  running 


THE  UNOBTRUSIVE  PARTING         107 

about  and  doing  things  he  would  have  remained  — 
a  man  of  honour.  It  was  his  pride  rather  than 
his  vanity  to  be  mistaken  for  Sir  Edward  Grey. 
He  now  walked  along  with  Miss  Philips  and  his 
wife  behind  the  disputing  Bowleses,  and  dis- 
coursed in  deep  sonorous  tones  about  the  healthi- 
ness of  healthy  places  and  the  stifling  feeling  one 
had  in  towns  when  there  was  no  air. 

§4 

The  Professor  was  remarkably  active  when  at 
last  the  point  he  had  chosen  for  the  encampment 
was  reached.  Bealby  was  told  to  "look  alive" 
twice,  and  WilKam  was  assigned  to  his  genus  and 
species;  "The  man's  an  absolute  idiot/'  was  the 
way  the  Professor  put  it.  William  just  shot  a 
glance  at  him  over  his  nose.  The  place  certainly 
commanded  a  wonderful  view.  It  was  a  turfy 
bank  protected  from  the  north  and  south  by 
bushes  of  yew  and  the  beech-bordered  edge  of 
a  chalk  pit ;  it  was  close  beside  the  road,  a  road 
which  went  steeply  down  the  hill  into  Winthorpe- 
Sutbury,  with  that  intrepid  decision  peculiar  to 
the  hill-roads  of  the  south  of  England.  It  looked 
indeed  as  though  you  could  throw  the  rinse  of  your 
teacups  into  the  Winthorpe-Sutbury  street ;  as 
if  you  could  jump  and  impale  yourself  upon  the 
church  spire.  The  hills  bellied  out  east  and 
west  and  carried  hangers,  and  then  swept  round 
to  the  west  in  a  long  level  succession  of  projec- 
tions, a  perspective  that  merged  at  last  with  the 
general  horizon  of  hilly  bluenesses,  amidst  which 


108  BEALBY 

Professor  Bowles  insisted  upon  a  "sapphire 
glimpse"  of  sea.  "The  Channel,"  said  Profes- 
sor Bowles,  as  though  that  made  it  easier  for 
them.  Only  Mr.  Geedge  refused  to  see  even 
that  mitigated  version  of  the  sea.  There  was 
something  perhaps  bluish  and  level,  but  he  was 
evidently  not  going  to  admit  it  was  sea  until  he 
had  paddled  in  it  and  tested  it  in  every  way 
known  to  him.  .  .  . 

"Good  Lord!''  cried  the  Professor.  "What's 
the  man  doing  now?" 

William  stopped  the  struggles  and  confidential 
discouragements  he  was  bestowing  upon  the 
white  horse  and  waited  for  a  more  definite  re- 
proach. 

"Putting  the  caravan  alongside  to  the  sun! 
Do  you  think  it  will  ever  get  cool  again?  And 
think  of  the  blaze  of  the  sunset  —  through  the 
glass  of  that  door!" 

William  spluttered.  "If  I  put'n  tother  way  — 
goo  runnin'  down  t'hill  like,"  said  William. 

"Imbecile!"  cried  the  Professor.  "Put  some- 
thing under  the  wheels.  Here!''  He  careered 
about  and  produced  great  grey  fragments  of  a 
perished  yew  tree.  "  Now  then,"  he  said.  "  Head 
up  hill." 

William  did  his  best. 

"Oh  !  not  like  that !    Here,  you !" 

Bealby  assisted  with  obsequious  enthusiasm. 

It  was  some  time  before  the  caravan  was  ad- 
justed to  the  complete  satisfaction  of  the  Professor. 
But  at  last  it  was  done,  and  the  end  door  gaped  at 
the  whole  prospect  of  the  Weald  with  the  steps  hang- 


THE  UNOBTRUSIVE  PARTING  109 

ing  out  idiotically  like  a  tongue.  The  hind  wheels 
were  stayed  up  very  cleverly  by  lumps  of  chalk  and 
chunks  of  yew,  living  and  dead,  and  certainly  the 
effect  of  it  was  altogether  taller  and  better.  And 
then  the  preparations  for  the  midday  cooking  began. 
The  Professor  was  full  of  acute  ideas  about  camp- 
ing and  cooking,  and  gave  Bealby  a  lively  but  in- 
structive time.  There  was  no  stream  handy,  but 
William  was  sent  off  to  the  hotel  to  fetch  a  garden 
water-cart  that  the  Professor  with  infinite  fore- 
sight had  arranged  should  be  ready. 

The  Geedges  held  aloof  from  these  preparations, 
—  they  were  unassuming  people;  Miss  Philips 
concentrated  her  attention  upon  the  Weald  — 
it  seemed  to  Bealby  a  little  discontentedly  — 
as  if  it  was  unworthy  of  her  —  and  Mrs.  Bowles 
hovered  smoking  cigarettes  over  her  husband's 
activities,  acting  great  amusement. 

"You  see  it  pleases  me  to  get  Himself  busy,'* 
she  said.  "You'll  end  a  Camper  yet,'Darlint, 
and  us  in  the  hotel." 

The  Professor  answered  nothing,  but  seemed 
to  plunge  deeper  into  practicality. 

Under  the  urgency  of  Professor  Bowles  Bealby 
stumbled  and  broke  a  glass  jar  of  marmalade 
over  some  fried  potatoes,  but  otherwise  did  well 
as  a  cook's  assistant.  Once  things  were  a  little 
interrupted  by  the  Professor  going  off  to  catch  a 
cricket,  but  whether  it  was  the  right  sort  of 
cricket  or  not  he  failed  to  get  it.  And  then  with 
three  loud  reports  —  for  a  moment  Bealby  thought 
the  mad  butlers  from  Shonts  were  upon  him  with 
firearms  —  Captain  Douglas  arrived  and  got  off 


no  BEALBY 

his  motor  bicycle  and  left  it  by  the  roadside. 
His  machine  accounted  for  his  delay,  for  those 
were  the  early  days  of  motor  bicycles.  It  also 
accounted  for  a  black  smudge  under  one  of  his 
bright  little  eyes.  He  was  fair  and  flushed, 
dressed  in  oilskins  and  a  helmet-shaped  cap  and 
great  gauntlets  that  made  him,  in  spite  of  the 
smudge,  look  strange  and  brave  and  handsome, 
like  a  Crusader  —  only  that  he  was  clad  in  oilskin 
and  not  steel,  and  his  moustache  was  smaller  than 
those  Crusaders  wore ;  and  when  he  came 
across  the  turf  to  the  encampment  Mrs.  Bowles 
and  Mrs.  Geedge  both  set  up  a  cry  of  ^'A-Ah!^' 
and  Miss  Philips  turned  an  accusing  face  upon 
those  two  ladies.  Bealby  knelt  with  a  bunch  of 
knives  and  forks  in  his  hand,  laying  the  cloth 
for  lunch,  and  when  he  saw  Captain  Douglas 
approaching  Miss  Philips,  he  perceived  clearly 
that  that  lady  had  already  forgotten  her  lowly 
adorer,  and  his  little  heart  was  smitten  with 
desolation.  This  man  was  arrayed  Hke'a  chival- 
rous god,  and  how  was  a  poor  Bealby,  whose  very 
collar,  his  one  little  circlet  of  manhood,  had  been 
reft  from  him,  how  was  he  to  compete  with  this 
tremendousness  ?  In  that  hour  the  ambition  for 
mechanism,  the  passion  for  leather  and  oilskin, 
was  sown  in  Bealby's  heart. 

'^I  told  you  not  to  come  near  me  for  a  month/' 
said  Madeleine,  but  her  face  was  radiant. 

"These  motor  bicycles  —  very  difficult  to  con- 
trol," said  Captain  Douglas,  and  all  the  little 
golden-white  hairs  upon  his  sunlit  cheek  glittered 
in  the  sua. 


THE  UNOBTRUSIVE  PARTING         111 


"And  besides/^  said  Mrs.  Bowles,  "it's  all 
nonsense." 

The  Professor  was  in  a  state  of  arrested  ad- 
ministration;  the  three  others  were  frankly 
audience  to  a  clearly  understood  scene. 

"You  ought  to  be  in  France." 

"I'm  not  in  France." 

"I  sent  you  into  exile  for  a  month,"  and  she 
held  out  a  hand  for  the  captain  to  kiss. 

He  kissed  it. 

Someday,  somewhere,  it  was  written  in  the 
book  of  destiny  Bealby  should  also  kiss  hands. 
It  was  a  lovely  thing  to  do. 

"Month!  It's  been  years,"  said  the  captain. 
"Years  and  years." 

"Then  you  ought  to  have  come  back  before," 
she  replied  and  the  captain  had  no  answer 
ready.  .  .  . 

§5 

When  William  arrived  with  the  water-cart,  he 
brought  also  further  proofs  of  the  Professor's 
organizing  ability.  He  brought  various  bottles 
of  wine,  red  Burgundy  and  sparkling  hock,  two 
bottles  of  cider,  and  peculiar  and  meritorious 
waters ;  he  brought  tinned  things  for  hors  d^oeuvre; 
he  brought  some  luscious  pears.  When  he  had 
a  moment  with  Bealby  behind  the  caravan  he 
repeated  thrice  in  tones  of  hopeless  sorrow, 
"They'll  eat  um  all.  I  knows  they'll  eat  um  all." 
And  then  plumbing  a  deeper  deep  of  woe,  "Ef 
they  donH  they'll  count  um.  Ode  Goggles'll  bag 
um.  ,  .  .    E's  a  bagger,  'e  is." 


112  BEALBY 

It  was  the  brightest  of  luncheons  that  was 
eaten  that  day  in  the  sunshine  and  spaciousness 
above  Winthorpe-Sutbury.  Everyone  was  gay, 
and  even  the  love-torn  Bealby,  who  might  well 
have  sunk  into  depression  and  lethargy,  was 
galvanized  into  an  activity  that  was  almost 
cheerful  by  flashes  from  the  Professor's  glasses. 
They  talked  of  this  and  that;  Bealby  hadn't 
much  time  to  attend,  though  the  laughter  that 
followed  various  sallies  from  Judy  Bowles  was 
very  tantalizing,  and  it  had  come  to  the  pears 
before  his  attention  wasn't  so  much  caught  as 
felled  by  the  word  '^Shonts."  ...  It  was  as 
if  the  sky  had  suddenly  changed  to  vermilion. 
All  these  people  were  talking  of  Shonts!  .  .  . 

"Went  there,"  said  Captain  Douglas,  "in 
perfect  good  faith.  Wanted  to  fill  up  Lucy's 
little  party.  One  doesn't  go  to  Shonts  nowadays 
for  idle  pleasure.  And  then  —  I  get  ordered  out 
of  the  house,  absolutely  Told  to  Go." 

(This  man  had  been  at  Shonts!) 

"That  was  on  Sunday  morning?"  said  Mrs. 
Geedge. 

"On  Sunday  morning,"  said  Mrs.  Bowles 
suddenly,  "we  were  almost  within  sight  of  Shonts." 

(This  man  had  been  at  Shonts  even  at  the 
time  when  Bealby  was  there!) 

"Early  on  Sunday  morning.  Told  to  go.  I 
was  fairly  flabbergasted.  What  the  deuce  is  a 
man  to  do  ?  Where's  he  to  go  ?  Sunday  ?  One 
doesn't  go  to  places,  Sunday  morning.  There 
I'd  been  sleeping  like  a  lamb  all  night  and  sud- 
denly in  came  Laxton  and  said,  'Look  here,  you 


THE  UNOBTRUSIVE  PARTING         113 

know/  he  said,  '  youVe  got  to  oblige  me  and  pack 
your  bag  and  go.  Now.'  'Why?'  said  I.  'Be- 
cause you've  driven  the  Lord  Chancellor  stark 
staring  mad !'" 

"But  how?"  asked  the  Professor,  almost  an- 
grily, ''how?  I  don't  see  it.  Why  should  he 
ask  you  to  go?" 

"/  don't  know!"  cried  Captain  Douglas. 

"Yes,  but —  !"  said  the  Professor,  protesting 
against  the  unreasonableness  of  mankind. 

"I'd  had  a  word  or  two  with  him  in  the  train. 
Nothing  to  speak  of.  About  occupying  two 
corner  seats  —  always  strikes  me  as  a  cad's 
trick  —  but  on  my  honour  I  didn't  rub  it  in.  And 
then  he  got  it  into  his  head  we  were  laughing  at 
him  at  dinner  —  we  were  a  bit,  but  only  the  sort 
of  thing  one  says  about  anyone  —  way  he  works 
his  eyebrows  and  all  that  —  and  then  he  thought 
I  was  ragging  him.  ...  I  donH  rag  people.  Got 
it  so  strongly  he  made  a  row  that  night.  Said 
I'd  made  a  ghost  slap  him  on  his  back.  Hang 
it !  —  what  can  you  say  to  a  thing  like  that  ?  In 
my  room  all  the  time." 

"You  suffer  for  the  sins  of  your  brother," 
said  Mrs.  Bowles. 

"  Heavens  1"  cried  the  captain,  "I  never  thought 
of  that !    Perhaps  he  mistook  me.  ..." 

He  reflected  for  a  moment  and  continued  his 
narrative.  "Then  in  the  night,  you  know,  he 
heard  noises." 

"They  always  do,"  said  the  Professor  nodding 
confirmation. 

"Couldn't  sleep." 


114  BEALBY 

"A  sure  sign/'  said  the  Professor. 

"And  finally  he  sallied  out  in  the  early  morning, 
caught  the  butler  in  one  of  the  secret  passages  — '' 

"How  did  the  butler  get  into  the  secret  pas- 
sage?'' 

"Going  round,  I  suppose.  Part  of  his  duties. 
.  .  .  Anyhow  he  gave  the  poor  beggar  an  awful 
doing  —  awful  —  brutal  —  black  eye,  —  all  that 
sort  of  thing;  man  much  too  respectful  to  hit 
back.  Finally  declared  I'd  been  getting  up  a 
kind  of  rag,  —  squaring  the  servants  to  help  and 
so  forth.  .  .  .  Laxton,  I  fancy,  half  believed 
it.  .  .  .  Awkward  thing,  you  know,  having  it 
said  about  that  you  ragged  the  Lord  Chancellor. 
Makes  a  man  seem  a  sort  of  mischievous  idiot. 
Injures  a  man.  Then  going  away,  you  see, 
seems  a  kind  of  admission.  .  .  ." 

"Why  did  you  go?'' 

"Lucy,"  said  the  captain  compactly.  "Hys- 
terics." 

"Shonts  would  have  burst,"  he  added,  "if  I 
hadn't  gone." 

Madeleine  was  helpful.  "But  you'll  have  to 
do   something  further,"   she  said. 

"What  is  one  to  dof^'  squealed  the  captain. 

"The  sooner  you  get  the  Lord  Chancellor 
certified  a  lunatic,"  said  the  Professor  soundly, 
"the  better  for  your  professional  prospects." 

"He  went  on  pretty  bad  after  I'd  gone." 

"You've  heard?" 

"Two  letters.  I  picked  'em  up  at  Wheatley 
Post  Office  this  morning.  You  know  he  hadn't 
done  with  that  butler.    Actually  got  out  of  his 


THE  UNOBTHUSIVE  PARTING         115 

place  and  scruffed  the  poor  devil  at  lunch.  Shook 
him  like  a  rat,  she  says.  Said  the  man  wasn^t 
giving  him  anything  to  drink  —  nice  story,  eh  ? 
Anyhow  he  scruffed  him  until  things  got  broken. 
•  •  • 

"I  had  it  all  from  Minnie  Timbre  —  you 
know,  used  to  be  Minnie  Flax.^'  He  shot  a  pro- 
pitiating glance  at  Madeleine.  "Used  to  be 
neighbours  of  ours,  you  know,  in  the  old  time. 
Half  the  people,  she  says,  didn't  know  what  was 
happening.  Thought  the  butler  was  apoplectic 
and  that  old  Moggeridge  was  helping  him  stand 
up.  Taking  off  his  collar.  It  was  Laxton  thought 
of  saying  it  was  a  fit.  Told  everybody,  she  says. 
Had  to  tell  'em  Something,  I  suppose.  But  she 
saw  better  and  she  thinks  a  good  many  others 
did.  Laxton  ran  'em  both  out  of  the  room. 
Nice  scene  for  Shonts,  eh  ?  Thundering  awkward 
for  poor  Lucy.  Not  the  sort  of  thing  the  county 
expected.  Has  her  both  ways.  Can't  go  to  a 
house  where  the  Lord  Chancellor  goes  mad.  One 
alternative.  Can't  go  to  a  house  where  the 
butler  has  fits.  That's  the  other.  See  the  di- 
lemma? ..." 

"I've  got  a  letter  from  Lucy,  too.  It's  here" 
—  he  struggled  —  "See?  Eight  sheets  —  pencil. 
No  Joke  for  a  man  to  read  that.  And  she  writes 
worse  than  any  decent  self-respecting  illiterate 
woman  has  a  right  to  do.  Quivers.  Like  writing 
in  a  train.  Can't  read  half  of  it.  But  she^s  got 
something  about  a  boy  on  her  mind.  Mad  about 
a  boy.  Have  I  taken  away  a  boy  ?  They've  lost 
a  boy.    Took  him  in  my   luggage,   I  suppose. 


116  BEALBY 

She'd  better  write  to  the  Lord  Chancellor.  Likely 
as  not  he  met  him  in  some  odd  corner  and  flew  at 
him.  Smashed  him  to  atoms.  Dispersed  him. 
Anyhow  they've  lost  a  boy." 

He  protested  to  the  world.  "/  can't  go  hunt- 
ing lost  boys  for  Lucy.  I've  done  enough  coming 
away  as  I  did.  .  .  ." 

Mrs.  Bowles  held  out  an  arresting    cigarette. 

"What  sort  of  boy  was  lost?"  she  asked. 

"/  don't  know.  Some  little  beast  of  a  boy. 
I  daresay  she'd  only  imagined  it.  Whole  thing 
been  too  much  for  her." 

"Read  that  over  again,"  said  Mrs.  Bowles, 
"about  losing  a  boy.     We've  found  one." 

"That  little  chap?" 

"We  found  that  boy"  —  she  glanced  over  her 
shoulder,  but  Bealby  was  nowhere  to  be  seen  — 
"on  Sunday  morning  near  Shonts.  He  strayed 
into  us  like  a  lost  kitten," 

"But  I  thought  you  said  you  knew  his  father, 
Judy,"  objected  the  Professor. 

"Didn't  verify,"  said  Mrs.  Bowles  shortly,  and 
then  to  Captain  Douglas,  "read  over  again  what 
Lady  Laxton  says  about  him.  ..." 

§6 

Captain  Douglas  struggled  with  the  difficulties 
of  his  cousin's  handwriting. 

Everybody  drew  together  over  "the  fragments 
of  the  dessert  with  an  eager  curiosity,  and 
helped  to  weigh  Lady  Laxton's  rather  dishevelled 
phrases.  .  .  . 


THE  UNOBTRUSIVE  PARTING        Tfl^ 

§7 

"We'll  call  the  principal  witness,"  said  Mrs. 
Bowles  at  last,  warming  to  the  business.     "  Dick  1 '' 

^^Di-ick!" 

''Dick!'' 

The  Professor  got  up  and  strolled  round  behind 
the  caravan.     Then  he  returned.     "No  boy  there." 

"He  heard ! "  said  Mrs.  Bowles  in  a  large  whisper 
and  making  round  wonder-eyes. 

"She  says/'  said  Douglas,  "that  the  chances 
are  he^s  got  into  the  secret  passages.  ..." 

The  Professor  strolled  out  to  the  road  and 
looked  up  it  and  then  down  upon  the  roofs  of 
Winthorpe-Sutbury.  "  No,"  he  said.  "  He's  miz- 
zled." 

"He's  only  gone  away  for  a  bit,"  said  Mrs. 
Geedge.  "He  does  sometimes  after  lunch.  He'll 
come  back  to  wash  up." 

"He's  probably  taking  a  snooze  among  the  yew 
bushes  before  facing  the  labours  of  washing 
up,"  said  Mrs.  Bowles.  "He  can't  have  mizzled. 
You  see  —  in  there  —  He  can't  by  any  chance 
have  taken  his  luggage!" 

She  got  up  and  clambered  —  with  a  little 
difficulty  because  of  its  piled-up  position,  into  the 
caravan.  "It's  all  right,"  she  called  out  of  the 
door.     "His  little  parsivel  is  still  here." 

Her  head   disappeared   again. 

"I  don't  think  he'd  go  away  like  this,"  said 
Madeleine.  "After  all,  what  is  there  for  him  to 
go  to  —  even  if  he  is  Lady  Laxton's  missing 
boy.  .  .  ." 


118  BEALBY 

"I  don't  believe  he  heard  a  word  of  it/'  said 
Mrs.  Geedge.  .  .  . 

Mrs.  Bowles  reappeared,  with  a  curious-looking 
brown-paper  parcel  in  her  hand.  She  descended 
carefully.  She  sat  down  by  the  fire  and  held  the 
parcel  on  her  knees.  She  regarded  it  and  her 
companions  waggishly  and  lit  a  fresh  cigarette. 
"Our  link  with  Dick/^  she  said,  with  the  cigarette 
in  her  mouth. 

She  felt  the  parcel,  she  poised  the  parcel,  she 
looked  at  it  more  and  more  waggishly.  "I 
wonder j*^  she  said. 

Her  expression  became  so  waggish  that  her 
husband  knew  she  was  committed  to  behaviour 
of  the  utmost  ungentlemanliness.  He  had  long 
ceased  to  attempt  restraint  in  these  moods.  She 
put  her  head  on  one  side  and  tore  open  the  corner 
of  the  parcel  just  a  little  way. 

"A  tin  can,"  she  said  in  a  stage  whisper. 

She  enlarged  the  opening.  "Blades  of  grass,'' 
she  said. 

The  Professor  tried  to  regard  it  humorously. 
"Even  if  you  have  ceased  to  be  decent  you  can 
still  be  frank.  ...  I  think,  now,  my  dear, 
you  might  just  straightforwardly  undo  the 
parcel." 

She  did.  Twelve  unsympathetic  eyes  surveyed 
the  evidences  of  Bealby^s  utter  poverty. 

"He's  coming/'  cried  Madeleine  suddenly. 

Judy  repacked  hastily,  but  it  was  a  false  alarm. 

"I  said  he'd  mizzled,"  said  the  Professor. 

"And  without  washing  up  !"  wailed  Madeleine, 

I  couldn't  have  thought  it  of  him.  .  .  ." 


u 


THE  UNOBTRUSIVE  PARTING         119 

§8 

But  Bealby  had  not  "mizzled,"  although  he 
was  conspicuously  not  in  evidence  about  the 
camp.  There  was  neither  sight  nor  sound  of 
him  for  all  the  time  they  sat  about  the  vestiges 
of  their  meal.  They  talked  of  him  and  of  topics 
arising  out  of  him,  and  whether  the  captain 
should  telegraph  to  Lady  Laxton,  "Boy  practi- 
cally found."  "I'd  rather  just  find  him,"  said 
the  captain,  "and  anyhow  until  we  get  hold  of 
him  we  don't  know  it's  her  particular  boy." 
Then  they  talked  of  washing-up  and  how  detest- 
able it  was.  And  suddenly  the  two  husbands, 
seeing  their  advantage,  renewed  their  proposals 
that  the  caravanners  should  put  up  at  the  golf- 
links  hotel,  and  have  baths  and  the  comforts 
of  civilization  for  a  night  or  so  —  and  anyhow 
walk  thither  for  tea.  And  as  William  had  now 
returned  —  he  was  sitting  on  the  turf  afar  off 
smoking  a  nasty-looking  short  clay  pipe  —  they 
rose  up  and  departed.  But  Captain  Douglas 
and  Miss  Philips  for  some  reason  did  not  go  off 
exactly  with  the  others,  but  strayed  apart,  stray- 
ing away  more  and  more  into  a  kind  of  soli- 
tude. ... 

First  the  four  married  people  and  then  the 
two  lovers  disappeared  over  the  crest  of  the 
downs.  .  .  . 

§9 

For  a  time,  except  for  its  distant  sentinel,  the 
caravan  seemed  absolutely  deserted,  and  then  a 
clump  of  bramble  against  the  wall  of  the  old 


120  BEALBY 

chalk-pit  became  agitated  and  a  small  rueful 
disillusioned  white-smeared  little  Bealby  crept 
back  into  the  visible  universe  again.  His  heart 
was  very  heavy. 

The  time  had  come  to  go. 

And  he  did  not  want  to  go.  He  had  loved  the 
caravan.     He  had  adored  Madeleine. 

He  would  go,  but  he  would  go  beautifully  — 
touchingly. 

He  would  wash  up  before  he  went,  he  would 
make  everything  tidy,  he  would  leave  behind  him 
a  sense  of  irreparable  loss.  .  .  . 

With  a  mournful  precision  he  set  about  this 
undertaking.  If  Mergleson  could  have  seen, 
Mergleson  would  have  been  amazed.  .  .  . 

He  made  everything  look  wonderfully  tidy. 

Then  in  the  place  where  she  had  sat,  lying  on 
her  rug,  he  found  her  favourite  book,  a  small 
volume  of  Swinburne^s  poems  very  beautifully 
bound.     Captain  Douglas  had  given  it  to  her. 

Bealby  handled  it  with  a  kind  of  reverence. 
So  luxurious  it  was,  so  unlike  the  books  in  Bealby's 
world,  so  altogether  of  her  quality.  .  .  .  Strange 
forces  prompted  him.  For  a  time  he  hesitated. 
Then  decision  came  with  a  rush.  He  selected  a 
page,  drew  the  stump  of  a  pencil  from  his  pocket, 
wetted  it  very  wet  and,  breathing  hard,  began  to 
write  that  traditional  message,  "Farewell.  Re- 
member Art  Bealby.^' 

To  this  he  made  an  original  addition:  "I 
washt  up  before  I  went.'' 

Then  he  remembered  that  so  far  as  this  caravan 
went  he  was  not  Art  Bealby  at  all.    He  renewed 


THE  UNOBTRUSIVE  PARTING  121 

the  wetness  of  his  pencil  and  drew  black  lines 
athwart  the  name  of  "Art  Bealby^'  until  it  was 
quite  unreadable;  then  across  this  again  and 
pressing  still  deeper  so  that  the  subsequent 
pages  re-echoed  it  he  wrote  these  singular  words 
"Ed  rightful  Earl  Shonts/'  Then  he  was 
ashamed;  and  largely  obliterated  this  by  still 
more  forcible  strokes.  Finally  above  it  all  plainly 
and  nakedly  he  wrote  "Dick  Mal-travers.  .  .  .'' 

He  put  down  the  book  with  a  sigh  and  stood 
up. 

Everything  was  beautifully  in  order.  But 
could  he  not  do  something  yet?  There  came 
to  him  the  idea  of  wreathing  the  entire  camping 
place  with  boughs  of  yew.  It  would  look  lovely 
—  and  significant.  He  set  to  work.  At  first  he 
toiled  zealously,  but  yew  is  tough  to  get  and 
soon  his  hands  were  painful.  He  cast  about  for 
some  easier  way,  and  saw  beneath  the  hind 
wheels  of  the  caravan  great  green  boughs  —  one 
particularly  a  splendid  long  branch.  ...  It 
seemed  to  him  that  it  would  be  possible  to  with- 
draw this  branch  from  the  great  heap  of  sticks 
and  stones  that  stayed  up  the  hind  wheels  of 
the  caravan.  It  seemed  to  him  that  that  was 
so.     He  was  mistaken,  but  that  was  his  idea. 

He  set  to  work  to  do  it.  It  was  rather  more 
difficult  to  manage  than  he  had  supposed ;  there 
were  unexpected  ramifications,  wider  resistances. 
Indeed,  the  thing  seemed  rooted. 

Bealby  was  a  resolute  youngster  at  bottom. 

He  warmed  to  his  task.  .  .  .  He  tugged 
harder  and  harder.  .  .  . 


122  BEALBY 


§10 


How  various  is  the  quality  of  humanity ! 

About  Bealby  there  was  ever  an  imaginative 
touch ;  he  was  capable  of  romance,  of  gallantries, 
of  devotion.  William  was  of  a  grosser  clay, 
slave  of  his  appetites,  a  materialist.  Such  men 
as  William  drive  one  to  believe  in  born  inferiors, 
in  the  existence  of  a  lower  sort,  in  the  natural 
inequality  of  men. 

While  Bealby  was  busy  at  his  little  gentle  task 
of  reparation,  a  task  foolish  perhaps  and  not  too 
ably  conceived,  but  at  any  rate  morally  gracious, 
William  had  no  thought  in  the  world  but  the 
satisfaction  of  those  appetites  that  the  consensus 
of  all  mankind  has  definitely  relegated  to  the 
lower  category.  And  which  Heaven  has  rele- 
gated to  the  lower  regions  of  our  frame.  He 
came  now  slinking  towards  the  vestiges  of  the 
caravanners'  picnic,  and  no  one  skilled  in  the 
interpretation  of  the  human  physiognomy  could 
have  failed  to  read  the  significance  of  the  tongue 
tip  that  drifted  over  his  thin  oblique  lips.  He 
came  so  softly  towards  the  encampment  that 
Bealby  did  not  note  him.  Partly  William  thought 
of  remnants  of  food,  but  chiefly  he  was  intent  to 
drain  the  bottles.  Bealby  had  stuck  them  all 
neatly  in  a  row  a  little  way  up  the  hill.  There 
was  a  cider  bottle  with  some  heel-taps  of  cider, 
William  drank  that ;  then  there  was  nearly  half  a 
bottle  of  hock  and  William  drank  that,  then 
there  were  the  drainings  of  the  Burgundy  and 
Apollinaris.    It  was  all  drink  to  William. 


THE  UNOBTRUSIVE  PARTING  123 

And  after  he  had  drained  each  bottle  William 
winked  at  the  watching  angels  and  licked  his  lips, 
and  patted  the  lower  centres  of  his  being  with  a 
shameless  base  approval.  Then  fired  by  alcohol, 
robbed  of  his  last  vestiges  of  self-control,  his 
thoughts  turned  to  the  delicious  chocolates  that 
were  stored  in  a  daintily  beribboned  box  in  the 
little  drawers  beneath  the  sleeping  bunk  of  Miss 
Philips.  There  was  a  new  brightness  in  his  eye, 
a  spot  of  pink  in  either  cheek.  With  an  expres- 
sion of  the  lowest  cunning  he  reconnoitred  Bealby. 

Bealby  was  busy  about  something  at  the  back 
end  of  the  caravan,  tugging  at  something. 

With  swift  stealthy  movements  of  an  entirely 
graceless  sort,  William  got  up  into  the  front  of 
the  caravan. 

Just  for  a  moment  he  hesitated  before  going  in. 
He  craned  his  neck  to  look  round  the  side  at  the 
unconscious  Bealby,  wrinkled  the  vast  nose  into 
an  unpleasant  grimace  and  then  —  a  crouching 
figure  of  appetite  —  he  crept  inside. 

Here  they  were!  He  laid  his  hand  in  the 
drawer,  halted  listening.  .  .  . 

What  was  that?  .  .  . 

Suddenly  the  caravan  swayed.  He  stumbled, 
and  fear  crept  into  his  craven  soul.  The  caravan 
lurched.  It  was  moving.  .  .  .  Its  hind  wheels 
came  to  the  ground  with  a  crash.  .  .  . 

He  took  a  step  doorward  and  was  pitched  side- 
ways and  thrown  upon  his  knees.  .  .  .  Then  he 
was  hurled  against  the  dresser  and  hit  by  a  falling 
plate.  A  cup  fell  and  smashed  and  the  caravan 
seemed  to  leap  and  bound.  .  .  . 


124  BEALBY 

Through  the  little  window  he  had  a  glimpse  of 
yew  bushes  hurrying  upward.  The  caravan  was 
going  down  hill.  .  .  . 

"Lummy!''  said  William,  clutching  at  the 
bunks  to  hold  himself  upright.  .  .  . 

"Ca-arnt  be  that  drink  1"  said  William,  aspread 
and  aghast.  ... 

He  attempted  the  door. 

"Crikey!  Here!  Hold  in!  My  shin!"  .  .  . 
"Tis  thut  Brasted  Vool  of  a  Boy !" 

"...  ."  said  William. 


•  •••  •••• 


The  caravan  party  soon  came  to  its  decision. 
They  would  stay  the  night  in  the  hotel.  And  so  as 
soon  as  they  had  had  some  tea  they  decided  to  go 
back  and  make  William  bring  the  caravan  and^l 
the  ladies'  things  round  to  the  hotel.  With  char- 
acteristic eagerness,  Professor  Bowles  led  the  way. 

And  so  it  was  Professor  Bowles  who  first  saw 
the  release  of  the  caravan.  He  barked.  One 
short  sharp  bark.  "Whup!"  he  cried,  and  very 
quickly,  '  ^  Whatstheboy doing  ? ' ' 


THE  UNOBTRUSIVE  PARTING         125 

Then  quite  a  different  style  of  noise,  with  the 
mouth  open  "  Wha  —  hoop  !" 

Then  he  set  off  running  very  fast  down  towards 
the  caravan,  waving  his  arms  and  shouting  as 
he  ran,  "Yaaps!    You  Idiot.     Yaaps!'^ 

The  others  were  less  promptly  active. 

Down  the  slope  they  saw  Bealby,  a  little 
struggling  active  Bealby,  tugging  away  at  a  yew 
branch  until  the  caravan  swayed  with  his  efforts, 
and  then  —  then  there  was  a  movement  as  though 
the  thing  tossed  its  head  and  reared,  and  a  smash 
as  the  heap  of  stuff  that  stayed  up  its  hind  wheels 
collapsed.  .  .  . 

It  plunged  like  a  horse  with  a  dog  at  its  heels, 
it  lurched  sideways,  and  then  with  an  air  of  quiet 
deliberation  started  down  the  grass  slope  to  the 
road  and  Winthorpe-Sutbury.  .  .  . 

Professor  Bowles  sped  in  pursuit  like  the  wind, 
and  Mrs.  Bowles  after  a  gasping  moment  set  off 
after  her  lord,  her  face  round  and  resolute.  Mr. 
Geedge  followed  at  a  more  dignified  pace,  making 
the  only  really  sound  suggestion  that  was  offered 
on  the  occasion.  ''Hue!  Stop  it!'^  cried  Mr. 
Geedge,  for  all  the  world  like  his  great  prototype 
at  the  Balkan  Conference.  And  then  like  a  large 
languid  pair  of  scissors  he  began  to  run.  Mrs. 
Geedge  after  some  indefinite  moments  decided 
to  see  the  humour  of  it  all,  and  followed  after  her 
lord,  in  a  fluttering  rush,  emitting  careful  little 
musical  giggles  as  she  ran,  giggles  that  she  had 
learnt  long  ago  from  a  beloved  schoolfellow. 
Captain  Douglas  and  Miss  Philips  were  some  way 
behind  the  others,  and  the  situation  had  already 


126  BEALBY 

developed  considerably  before  they  grasped  what 
was  happening.  Then  obeying  the  instincts  of  a 
soldier  the  captain  came  charging  to  support  the 
others,  and  Miss  Madeleine  Philips  after  some 
wasted  gestures  realized  that  nobody  was  looking 
at  her,  and  sat  down  quietly  on  the  turf  until 
this  paralyzing  state  of  affairs  should  cease. 

The  caravan  remained  the  centre  of  interest. 

Without  either  indecent  haste  or  any  complete 
pause  it  pursued  its  way  down  the  road  towards  the 
tranquil  village  below.  Except  for  the  rumbling  of 
its  wheels  and  an  occasional  concussion  it  made 
very  little  sound :  once  or  twice  there  was  a  faint 
sound  of  breaking  crockery  from  its  interior  and 
once  the  phantom  of  an  angry  yell,  but  that  was  all. 

There  was  an  effect  of  discovered  personality 
about  the  thing.  This  vehicle,  which  had  hitherto 
been  content  to  play  a  background  part,  a  yellow 
patch  amidst  the  scenery,  was  now  revealing  an 
individuality.  It  was  purposeful  and  touched 
with  a  suggestion  of  playfulness,  at  once  kindly 
and  human ;  it  had  its  thoughtful  instants,  its 
phases  of  quick  decision,  yet  never  once  did  it 
altogether  lose  a  certain  mellow  dignity.  There 
was  nothing  servile  about  it ;  never  for  a  moment, 
for  example,  did  it  betray  its  blind  obedience  to 
gravitation.  It  was  rather  as  if  it  and  gravitation 
were  going  hand  in  hand.  It  came  out  into  the 
road,  butted  into  the  bank,  swept  round,  medi- 
tated for  a  full  second,  and  then  shafts  foremost 
headed  downhill,  going  quietly  faster  and  faster 
and  swaying  from  bank  to  bank.  The  shafts 
went  before  it  like  arms  held  out.  .  .  . 


THE  UNOBTRUSIVE  PARTING         127 

It  had  a  quality  —  as  if  it  were  a  favourite 
elephant  running  to  a  beloved  master  from  whom 
it  had  been  over-long  separated.  Or  a  slightly 
intoxicated  and  altogether  happy  yellow  guinea- 
pig  making  for  some  coveted  food.  .  .  . 

At  a  considerable  distance  followed  Professor 
Bowles,  a  miracle  of  compact  energy,  running 
so  fast  that  he  seemed  only  to  touch  the  ground 
at  very  rare  intervals.  .  .  . 

And  then,  dispersedly,  in  their  order  and 
according  to  their  natures,  the  others.  .  .  . 

There  was  fortunately  very  little  on  the  road. 

There  was  a  perambulator  containing  twins, 
whose  little  girl  guardian  was  so  fortunate  as  to 
be  high  up  on  the  bank  gathering  blackberries. 

A  ditcher,  ditching. 

A  hawker  lost  in  thought. 

His  cart,  drawn  by  a  poor  little  black  screw  of 
a  pony  and  loaded  with  the  cheap  flawed  crockery 
that  is  so  popular  among  the  poor. 

A  dog  asleep  in  the  middle  of  the  village  street. 
.  .  .  Amidst  this  choice  of  objects  the  caravan 
displayed  a  whimsical  humanity.  It  reduced 
the  children  in  the  perambulator  to  tears,  but 
passed.  It  might  have  reduced  them  to  a  sort 
of  red-currant  jelly.  It  lurched  heavily  towards 
the  ditcher  and  spared  him,  it  chased  the  hawker 
up  the  bank,  it  whipped  off  a  wheel  from  the  cart 
of  crockery  (which  after  an  interval  of  astonish- 
ment fell  like  a  vast  objurgation)  and  then  it 
directed  its  course  with  a  grim  intentness  towards 
the  dog. 

It  just  missed  the  dog. 


128  BEALBY 

He  woke  up  not  a  moment  too  soon.  He  fled 
with  a  yelp  of  dismay. 

And  then  the  caravan  careered  on  a  dozen 
yards  further,  lost  energy  and  —  the  only  really 
undignified  thing  in  its  whole  career  —  stood  on 
its  head  in  a  wide  wet  ditch.  It  did  this  with 
just  the  slightest  lapse  into  emphasis.  There! 
It  was  as  if  it  gave  a  grunt  —  and  perhaps  there 
was  the  faintest  suggestion  of  William  in  that 
grunt  —  and  then  it  became  quite  still.  .  .  . 

For  a  time  the  caravan  seemed  finished  and 
done.  Its  steps  hung  from  its  upper  end  like  the 
tongue  of  a  tired  dog.  Except  for  a  few  minute 
noises  as  though  it  was  scratching  itself  inside,  it 
was  as  inanimate  as  death  itself. 

But  up  the  hill  road  the  twins  were  weeping, 
the  hawker  and  the  ditcher  were  saying  raucous 
things,  the  hawker's  pony  had  backed  into  the 
ditch  and  was  taking  ill-advised  steps,  for  which 
it  was  afterwards  to  be  sorry,  amidst  his  stock- 
in-trade,  and  Professor  Bowles,  Mrs.  Bowles, 
Mr.  Geedge,  Captain  Douglas  and  Mrs.  Geedge 
were  running  —  running  —  one  heard  the  various 
patter  of  their  feet. 

And  then  came  signs  of  life  at  the  upward  door 
of  the  caravan,  a  hand,  an  arm,  an  active  investi- 
gating leg  seeking  a  hold,  a  large  nose,  a  small 
intent  vicious  eye ;    in  fact  —  William. 

William  maddened. 

Professor  Bowles  had  reached  the  caravan. 
With  a  startling  agility  he  clambered  up  by  the 
wheels  and  step  and  confronted  the  unfortunate 
driver.     It  was  an  occasion  for  mutual  sympathy 


THE  UNOBTRUSIVE  PARTING         129 

rather  than  anger,  but  the  Professor  was  hasty, 
efficient  and  unsympathetic  with  the  lower  classes, 
and  William's  was  an  ill-regulated  temperament. 

"You  consummate  ass!^^  began  Professor 
Bowles.  .  .  . 

When  William  heard  Professor  Bowles  say 
this,  incontinently  he  smote  him  in  the  face,  and 
when  Professor  Bowles  was  smitten  in  the  face 
he  grappled  instantly  and  very  bravely  and 
resolutely  with  William. 

For  a  moment  they  struggled  fearfully,  they 
seemed  to  be  endowed  instantaneously  with 
innumerable  legs,  and  then  suddenly  they  fell 
through  the  door  of  the  caravan  into  the  interior, 
their  limbs  seemed  to  whirl  for  a  wonderful 
instant  and  then  they  were  swallowed  up.  .  .  . 

The  smash  was  tremendous.  You  would  not 
have  thought  there  was  nearly  so  much  in  the 
caravan  still  left  to  get  broken.  .  .  . 

A  healing  silence.  .  .  . 

At  length  smothered  noises  of  still  inadequate 
adjustment  within.  .  .  . 

The  village  population  in  a  state  of  scared  de- 
light appeared  at  a  score  of  points  and  con- 
verged upon  the  catastrophe.  Sounds  of  renewed 
dissension  between  William  and  the  Professor  in- 
side the  rearing  yellow  bulk,  promised  further  in- 
terests and  added  an  element  of  mystery  to  this 
manifest  disaster. 

§12 

As  Bealby,  still  grasping  his  great  branch  of 
yew,   watched  these  events,   a  sense  of  human 


130  BEALBY 

futility  invaded  his  youthful  mind.  For  the  first 
time  he  realized  the  gulf  between  intention  and 
result.     He  had  meant  so  well.  ... 

He  perceived  it  would  be  impossible  to  ex- 
plain. .  .  . 

The  thought  of  even  attempting  to  explain 
things  to  Professor  Bowles  was  repellent  to 
him.  .  .  . 

He  looked  about  him  with  round  despairful 
eyes.  He  selected  a  direction  which  seemed  to 
promise  the  maximum  of  concealment  with  the 
minimum  of  conversational  possibility,  and  in 
that  direction  and  without  needless  delay  he 
set  off,  eager  to  turn  over  an  entirely  fresh  page 
in  his  destiny  as  soon  as  possible.  .  .  . 

To  get  away,  the  idea  possessed  all  his  being. 

From  the  crest  of  the  downs  a  sweet  voice 
floated  after  his  retreating  form  and  never  over- 
took him. 

"Di-ick!" 

§13 

Then  presently  Miss  Philips  arose  to  her  feet, 
gathered  her  skirts  in  her  hand  and  with  her 
delicious  chin  raised  and  an  expression  of  counte- 
nance that  was  almost  businesslike,  descended 
towards  the  gathering  audience  below.  She  wore 
wide-flowing  skirts  and  came  down  the  hill  in 
Artemesian  strides. 

It  was  high  time  that  somebody  looked  at  her. 


CHAPTER  V 

^THE  SEEKING  OF  BEALBY 

§1 

On  the  same  Monday  evening  that  witnessed 
Bealby's  first  experience  of  the  theatre,  Mr. 
Mergleson,  the  house  steward  of  Shonts,  walked 
slowly  and  thoughtfully  across  the  corner  of  the 
park  between  the  laundry  and  the  gardens.  His 
face  was  much  recovered  from  the  accidents  of 
his  collision  with  the  Lord  Chancellor,  resort  to 
raw  meat  in  the  kitchen  had  checked  the  de- 
velopment of  his  injuries,  and  only  a  few  con- 
tusions in  the  side  of  his  face  were  more  than 
faintly  traceable.  And  suffering  had  on  the 
whole  rather  ennobled  than  depressed  his  bearing. 
He  had  a  black  eye,  but  it  was  not,  he  felt,  a  com- 
mon black  eye.  It  came  from  high  quarters 
and  through  no  fault  of  Mr.  Mergleson's  own. 
He  carried  it  well.  It  was  a  fruit  of  duty  rather 
than  the  outcome  of  wanton  pleasure-seeking  or 
misdirected  passion. 

He  found  Mr.  Darling  in  profound  meditation 
over  some  peach  trees  against  the  wall.  They 
were  not  doing  so  well  as  they  ought  to  do  and  Mr. 
Darling  was  engaged  in  wondering  why. 

"Good  evening,  Mr.  Darling,' '  said  Mr.  Mergle- 
son. 

131 


132  BEALBY 

Mr.  Darling  ceased  rather  slowly  to  wonder 
and  turned  to  his  friend.  "Good  evening,  Mr. 
Mergleson/'  he  said.  "I  don't  quite  Hke  the 
look  of  these  here  peaches,  Mowed  if  I  do." 

Mr.  Mergleson  glanced  at  the  peaches,  and  then 
came  to  the  matter  that  was  nearest  his  heart. 

"You  'aven't  I  suppose  seen  anything  of  your 
stepson  these  last  two  days,  Mr.  Darling?" 

"Naturally  not/'  said  Mr.  Darling,  putting 
his  head  on  one  side  and  regarding  his  inter- 
locutor. "Naturally  not,  —  IVe  left  that  to 
you,  Mr.  Mergleson." 

"Well,  that's  what's  awkward,"  said  Mr. 
Mergleson,  and  then,  with  a  forced  easiness,  "You 
see,  I  ain't  seen  'im  either." 

"No!" 

"No.  I  lost  sight  of  'im—"  Mr.  Mergleson 
appeared  to  reflect  —  "late  on  Sattiday  night." 

"'Ow's  that,  Mr.  Mergleson?" 

Mr.  Mergleson  considered  the  difficulties  of 
lucid  explanation.  "We  missed  'im,"  said  Mr. 
Mergleson  simply,  regarding  the  well-weeded 
garden  path  with  a  calculating  expression  and  then 
lifting  his  eyes  to  Mr.  Darling's  with  an  air  of 
great  candour.     "And  we  continue  to  miss  him." 

''Well!''  said  Mr.  Darling.     "That's  rum." 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Mergleson. 

"It's  decidedly  rum,"  said  Mr.  Darling. 

"We  thought  'e  might  be  'iding  from  'is  work. 
Or  cut  off  'ome." 

"You  didn't  send  down  to  ask." 

"We  was  too  busy  with  the  week-end  people. 
On  the  'ole  we  thought  if  'e  'ad  cut  'ome,  on  the 


THE  SEEKING  OF  BEALBY  133 

'ole  'e  wasn^t  a  very  serious  loss.  'E  got  in 
the  way  at  times.  .  .  .  And  there  was  one  or 
two  things  'appened  — ...  Now  that  they're  all 
gone. and  'e  'asn't  turned  up —  Well,  I  came 
down,  Mr.  Darling,  to  arst  you.  Where's  'e 
gone?" 

"'E  ain't  come  'ere/'  said  Mr.  Darling  survey- 
ing the  garden. 

"I  'arf  expected  'e  might  and  I  'arf  expected 
'e  mightn't,"  said  Mr.  Mergleson  with  the  air 
of  one  who  had  anticipated  Mr.  Darling's  answer 
but  hesitated  to  admit  as  much. 

The  two  gentlemen  paused  for  some  seconds 
and  regarded  each  other  searchingly. 

"Where's  'e  got  to  ?"  said  Mr.  Darling. 
■  "Well,"  said  Mr.  Mergleson,  putting  his  hands 
where  the  tails  of  his  short  jacket  would  have 
been  if  it  hadn't  been  short,  and  looking  extraor- 
dinarily like  a  parrot  in  its  more  thoughtful 
moods,  "to  tell  you  the  truth,  Mr.  Darling, 
I've  'ad  a  dream  about  'im  —  and  it  worries  me. 
I  got  a  sort  of  ideer  of  'im  as  being  in  one  of  them 
secret  passages.  'Iding  away.  There  was  a 
guest,  well,  I  say  it  with  all  respec'  but  anyone 
might  'ave  'id  from  'im.  .  .  .  S 'morning  soon 
as  the  week  end  'ad  cleared  up  and  gone  'ome, 
me  and  Thomas  went  through  them  passages  as 
well  as  we  could.  Not  a  trace  of  'im.  But  I  still 
got  that  ideer.  'E  was  a  wriggling,  climbing,  — 
enterprising  sort  of  boy." 

"I've  checked  'im  for  it  once  or  twice,"  said 
Mr.  Darling  with  the  red  light  of  fierce  memories 
gleaming  for  a  moment  in  his  eyes. 


134  BEALBY 


ctr 


E  might  even,"  said  Mr.  Mergleson,  "well, 
very  likely  'ave  got  'imself  jammed  in  one  of 
them  secret  passages.  ,  .  J^ 

"  Jammed, '^  repeated  Mr.  Darling. 

"  Well  —  got  'imself  somewhere  where  'e  can't 
get  out.  IVe  'eard  tell  there's  walled-up  dun- 
geons." 

"They  say,"  said  Mr.  Darling,  "there's  under- 
ground passages  to  the  Abbey  ruins  —  three  good 
mile  away." 

"Orkward,"  said  Mr.  Mergleson.  .  .  . 

"Drat  'is  eyes!"  said  Mr.  Darling,  scratching 
his  head.     "What  does  'e  mean  by  it?" 

"We  can't  leave  'im  there,"  said  Mr.  Mergle- 
son. 

"I  knowed  a  young  devil  once  what  crawled 
up  a  culvert,"  said  Mr.  Darling.  "'Is  father 
'ad  to  dig  'im  out  like  a  fox.  .  .  .  Lord !  'ow  'e 
walloped  'im  for  it." 

"Mistake  to  'ave  a  boy  in  so  young,"  said  Mr. 
Mergleson. 

"It's  all  very  awkward,"  said  Mr.  Darling, 
surveying  every  aspect  of  the  case.  "You  see  — . 
'Is  mother  sets  a  most  estrordinary  value  on 
'im.     Most  estrordinary." 

"I  don't  know  whether  she  oughtn't  to  be  told, 
said  Mr.  Mergleson.     "I  was  thinking  of  that." 

Mr.  Darling  was  not  the  sort  of  man  to  meet 
trouble  half-way.  He  shook  his  head  at  that. 
"Not  yet,  Mr.  Mergleson.  I  don't  think  yet. 
Not  until  everything's  been  tried.  I  don't  think 
there's  any  need  to  give  her  needless  distress,  — 
none  whatever.     If  you  don't  mind  I  think  I'll 


THE  SEEKING  OF  BEALBY  135 

come  up  to-night  —  nineish  say  —  and  'ave  a 
talk  to  you  and  Thomas  about  it  —  a  quiet 
talk.  Best  to  begin  with  a  quiet  talk.  It^s  a 
dashed  rum  go,  and  me  and  you  we  got  to  think 
it  out  a  bit.'' 

"That's  what  /  think/'  said  Mr.  Mergleson 
with  unconcealed  relief  at  Mr.  Darling's  friendli- 
ness. "That's  exactly  the  light;  Mr.  Darling, 
in  which  it  appears  to  me.  Because,  you  see 
—  if  'e's  all  right  and  in  the  'ouse,  why  doesn't 
'e  come  for  'is  vittels?" 

§2 

In  the  pantry  that  evening  the  question  of  tell- 
ing someone  was  discussed  further.  It  was  dis- 
cussed over  a  number  of  glasses  of  Mr.  Mergleson's 
beer.  For,  following  a  sound  tradition,  Mr. 
Mergleson  brewed  at  Shonts,  and  sometimes 
he  brewed  well  and  sometimes  he  brewed  ill,  and 
sometimes  he  brewed  weak  and  sometimes  he 
brewed  strong,  and  there  was  no  monotony  in  the 
cups  at  Shonts.  This  was  sturdy  stuff  and  suited 
Mr.  Darling's  mood,  and  ever  and  again  with  an 
author's  natural  weakness  and  an  affectation  of 
abstraction  Mr.  Mergleson  took  the  jug  out 
empty  and  brought  it  back  foaming. 

Henry,  the  second  footman,  was  disposed  to  a 
forced  hopefulness  so  as  not  to  spoil  the  evening, 
but  Thomas  was  sympathetic  and  distressed. 
The  red-haired  youth  made  cigarettes  with  a  little 
machine,  licked  them  and  offered  them  to  the 
others,  saying  little,  as  became  him.     Etiquette 


136  BEALBY 

deprived  him  of  an  uninvited  beer,  and  Mr. 
Mergleson's  inattention  completed  what  eti- 
quette began. 

"I  can't  bear  to  think  of  the  poor  Httle beggar, 
stuck  head  foremost  into  some  cobwebby  cranny, 
bio  wed  if  I  can,"  said  Thomas,  getting  help  from 
the  jug. 

"He  was  an  interesting  kid,"  said  Thomas  in  a 
tone  that  was  frankly  obituary.  "He  didn't 
like  his  work,  one  could  see  that,  but  he  was 
lively  —  and  I  tried  to  help  him  along  all  I  could, 
when  I  wasn't  too  busy  myself." 

"There  was  something  sensitive  about  him," 
said  Thomas. 

Mr.  Mergleson  sat  with  his  arms  loosely  thrown 
out  over  the  table. 

"What  we  got  to  do  is  to  tell  someone,"  he 
said;  "I  don't  see  'ow  I  can  put  off  telling  'er 
ladyship  —  after  to-morrow  morning.  And  then 
—  'eaven   'elp  us!" 

"'Course  /  got  to  tell  my  missis,"  said  Mr. 
Darling;  and  poured  in  a  preoccupied  way,  some 
running  over. 

"We'll  go  through  them  passages  again  now 
before  we  go  to  bed,"  said  Mr.  Mergleson,  "far 
as  we  can.  But  there's  'oles  and  chinks  on'y 
a  boy  could  get  through." 

"/  got  to  tell  the  missis,"  said  Mr.  Darling. 
"That's  what's  worrying  me.  .  .  ." 

As  the  evening  wore  on  there  was  a  tendency  on 
the  part  of  Mr.  Darling  to  make  this  the  refrain 
of  his  discourse.  He  sought  advice.  "'Ow'd 
you  tell  the  missis?"  he  asked  Mr.   Mergleson, 


THE  SEEKING  OF  BEALBY  137 

and  emptied  a  glass  to  control  his  impatience 
before  Mr.  Mergleson  replied. 

^'I  shall  tell  'er  ladyship,  just  simply,  the  fact. 
I  shall  say,  your  ladyship,  here's  my  boy  gone 
and  we  don't  know  where.  And  as  she  arsts  me 
questions  so  shall  I  give  particulars." 

Mr.  Darling  reflected  and  then  shook  his  head 
slowly. 

"'Ow^dju  tell  the  missis?"  he  asked  Thomas. 

"Glad  I  haven't  got  to,"  said  Thomas.  ^^Poor 
little  beggar." 

"Yes,  but  'ow  would  you  tell  'er?"  Mr.  Darling 
said,  varying  the  accent  very  carefully. 

"I'd  go  to  'er  and  I'd  pat  her  back  and  I'd  say, 
'bear  up,'  see,  and  when  she  asked  what  for,  I'd 
just  tell  her  what  for  —  gradual  like." 

"You  don't  know  the  missis," said  Mr.  Darling. 
"Henry, 'ow'djw  tell'er?" 

"Let  'er  find  out,"  said  Henry.  "Wimmin 
do." 

Mr.  Darling  reflected,  and  decided  that  too  was 
unworkable. 

"'Ow'd  youf^^  he  asked  with  an  air  of  despera- 
tion of  the  red-haired  youth. 

The  red-haired  youth  remained  for  a  moment 
with  his  tongue  extended,  licking  the  gum  of  a 
cigarette  paper,  and  his  eyes  on  Mr.  Darling. 
Then  he  finished  the  cigarette  slowly,  giving  his 
mind  very  carefully  to  the  question  he  had  been 
honoured  with.  "I  think,"  he  said,  in  a  low 
serious  voice,  "I  should  say,  just  simply,  Mary — 
or  Susan  —  or  whatever  her  name  is." 

"Tilda,"  supplied  Mr.  Darling. 


138  BEALBY 

'^' Tilda/  I  should  say.  'The  Lord  gave  and 
the  Lord  'ath  taken  away.  Tilda !  —  ^e's  gone.' 
Somethin'  like  that." 

The  red-haired  boy  cleared  his  throat.  He  was 
rather  touched  by  his  own  simple  eloquence. 

Mr.  Darling  reflected  on  this  with  profound 
satisfaction  for  some  moments.  Then  he  broke 
out  almost  querulously,  "Yes,  but  brast  him! 
—  whereas  'e  gone?" 

"Anyhow,"  said  Mr.  Darling,  "I  ain't  going 
to  tell  'er,  not  till  the  morning.  I  ain't  going  to 
lose  my  night's  rest  if  I  have  lost  my  stepson. 
Nohow.  Mr.  Mergleson,  I  must  say,  I  don't 
think  I  ever  ^ave  tasted  better  beer.  Never. 
It's  —  it's  famous  beer." 

He  had  some  more.  .  .  . 

On  his  way  back  through  the  moonlight  to  the 
gardens  Mr.  Darling  was  still  unsettled  as  to  the 
exact  way  of  breaking  things  to  his  wife.  He  had 
come  out  from  the  house  a  little  ruffled  because 
of  Mr.  Mergleson's  opposition  to  a  rather  good 
idea  of  his  that  he  should  go  about  the  house 
and  "holler  for  'im  a  bit.  He'd  know  my  voice, 
you  see.  Ladyship  wouldn't  mind.  Very  likely 
'sleep  by  now."  But  the  moonlight  dispelled 
his  irritation. 

How  was  he  to  tell  his  wife  ?  He  tried  various 
methods  to  the  listening  moon. 

There  was  for  example  the  off-hand  newsy  way. 
"You  know  tha'  boy  yours?"  Then  a  pause  for 
the  reply.     Then,  "'E's  toley  dis'peared." 

Only  there  are  difficulties  about  the  word 
totally. 


THE  SEEKING  OF  BEALBY  139 

Or  the  distressed  impersonal  manner.  "Dre'fle 
thing  happened.  Dre'fle  thing.  Tha'  poo'  liir 
chap,  Artie  —  toley  dis'peared.^' 

Totally  again. 

Or  the  personal  intimate  note.  "Dunno  wha' 
you'll  say  t'me,  Tilda,  when  you  hear  what- 
togottasay.  Thur'ly  bad  news.  Seems  they  los' 
our  Artie  up  there  —  clean  los'  'im.  Can't  fine 
'im  nowhere  tall." 

Or  the  authoritative  kindly.  "Tilda  —  you 
go'  control  yourself.  Go'  show  whad  you  made 
of.     Our  boy  —  'e's  —  hie  —  las' .''^ 

Then  he  addressed  the  park  at  large  with  a 
sudden  despair.  "Don'  care  wha'  I  say,  she'll 
blame  it  on  to  me.     I  know  'er!" 

After  that  the  enormous  pathos  of  the  situation 
got  hold  of  him.  "Poor  lill'  chap,"  he  said. 
"Poor  liir  fell',"  and  shed  a  few  natural  tears. 

"Loved  'im  jessis  mione  son." 

As  the  circumambient  night  made  no  reply  he 
repeated  the  remark  in  a  louder,  almost  domineer- 
ing tone.  .  .  . 

He  spent  some  time  trying  to  climb  the  garden 
wall  because  the  door  did  not  seem  to  be  in  the 
usual  place.  (Have  to  enquire  about  that  in  the 
morning.  Difficult  to  see  everything  is  all  right 
when  one  is  so  bereaved).  But  finally  he  came  on 
the  door  round  a  comer. 

He  told  his  wife  merely  that  he  intended  to 
have  a  peaceful  night,  and  took  off  his  boots  in 
a  defiant  and  intermittent  manner. 

The  morning  would  be  soon  enough. 

She  looked  at  him  pretty  hard,  and  he  looked 


140  BEALBY 

at  her  ever  and  again,  but  she  never  made  a 
guess  at  it. 
Bed. 

§3 

So  soon  as  the  week-enders  had  dispersed  and 
Sir  Peter  had  gone  off  to  London  to  attend  to 
various  matters  affecting  the  peptonizing  of  milk 
and  the  distribution  of  baby  soothers  about  the 
habitable  globe,  Lady  Laxton  went  back  to  bed 
and  remained  in  bed  until  midday  on  Tuesday. 
Nothing  short  of  complete  rest  and  the  utmost 
kindness  from  her  maid  would,  she  felt,  save  her 
from  a  nervous  breakdown  of  the  most  serious 
description.  The  festival  had  been  stormy  to 
the  end.  Sir  Peter's  ill-advised  attempts  to 
deprive  Lord  Moggeridge  of  alcohol  had  led  to  a 
painful  struggle  at  lunch,  and  this  had  been 
followed  by  a  still  more  unpleasant  scene  between 
host  and  guest  in  the  afternoon.  "This  is  an 
occasion  for  tact,"  Sir  Peter  had  said  and  had 
gone  off  to  tackle  the  Lord  Chancellor,  leaving 
his  wife  to  the  direst,  best  founded  apprehensions. 
For  Sir  Peter's  tact  was  a  thing  by  itself,  a  mixture 
of  misconception,  recrimination  and  familiarity 
that  was  rarely  well  received.  .  .  . 

She  had  had  to  explain  to  the  Sunday  dinner 
party  that  his  lordship  had  been  called  away 
suddenly.  "Something  connected  with  the  Great 
Seal,"  Lady  Laxton  had  whispered  in  a  discreet 
mysterious  whisper.  One  or  two  simple  hearers 
were  left  with  the  persuasion  that  the  Great  Seal 
had  been  taken  suddenly  unwell  —  and  probably 


THE  SEEKING  OF  BEALBY  141 

in  a  slightly  indelicate  manner.  Thomas  had  to 
paint  Mergleson's  eye  with  grease-paint  left  over 
from  some  private  theatricals.  It  had  been  a 
patched-up  affair  altogether,  and  before  she  retired 
to  bed  that  night  Lady  Laxton  had  given  way 
to  her  accumulated  tensions  and  wept. 

There  was  no  reason  whatever  why  to  wind  up 
the  day  Sir  Peter  should  have  stayed  in  her  room 
for  an  hour  saying  what  he  thought  of  Lord 
Moggeridge.  She  felt  she  knew  quite  well 
enough  what  he  thought  of  Lord  Moggeridge, 
and  on  these  occasions  he  always  used  a  number 
of  words  that  she  did  her  best  to  believe,  as  a 
delicately  brought-up  woman,  were  unfamiliar 
to  her  ears.  .  .  . 

So  on  Monday,  as  soon  as  the  guests  had  gone, 
she  went  to  bed  again  and  stayed  there,  trying  as 
a  good  woman  should  to  prevent  herself  thinking 
of  what  the  neighbours  could  be  thinking — and 
saying  —  of  the  whole  affair,  by  studying  a  new 
and  very  circumstantial  pamphlet  by  Bishop  Fowle 
on  social  evils,  turning  over  the  moving  illustra- 
tions of  some  recent  antivivisection  literature 
and  re-reading  the  accounts  in  the  morning  papers 
of  a  colliery  disaster  in  the  north  of  England. 

To  such  women  as  Lady  Laxton,  brought  up 
in  an  atmosphere  of  refinement  that  is  almost 
colourless,  and  living  a  life  troubled  only  by  small 
social  conflicts  and  the  minor  violence  of  Sir 
Peter,  blameless  to  the  point  of  complete  un- 
eventfulness,  and  secure  and  comfortable  to  the 
point  of  tedium,  there  is  something  amounting 
to  fascination  in  the  wickedness  and   sufferings 


142  BEALBY 

of  more  normally  situated  people,  there  is  a  real 
attraction  and  solace  in  the  thought  of  pain  and 
stress,  and  as  her  access  to  any  other  accounts  of 
vice  and  suffering  was  restricted  she  kept  herself 
closely  in  touch  with  the  more  explicit  literature 
of  the  various  movements  for  human  moraliza- 
tion  that  distinguish  our  age,  and  responded 
eagerly  and  generously  to  such  painful  catas- 
trophes as  enliven  it.  The  counterfoils  of  her 
cheque  book  witnessed  to  her  gratitude  for  these 
vicarious  sensations.  She  figured  herself  to 
herself  in  her  day  dreams  as  a  calm  and  white 
and  shining  intervention  checking  and  reproving 
amusements  of  an  undesirable  nature,  and  earning 
the  tearful  blessings  of  the  mangled  bye-products 
of  industrial  enterprise. 

There  is  a  curious  craving  for  entire  reality 
in  the  feminine  composition,  and  there  were  times 
when  in  spite  of  these  feasts  of  particulars,  she 
wished  she  could  come  just  a  little  nearer  to  the 
heady  dreadfulnesses  of  life  than  simply  writing 
a  cheque  against  it.  She  would  have  liked  to 
have  actually  seen  the  votaries  of  evil  blench 
and  repent  before  her  contributions,  to  have,  her- 
self, unstrapped  and  revived  and  pitied  some 
doomed  and  chloroformed  victim  of  the  so- 
called  "scientist,''  to  have  herself  participated  in 
the  stretcher  and  the  hospital  and  humanity 
made  marvellous  by  enlistment  under  the  red- 
cross  badge.  But  Sir  Peter's  ideals  of  womanhood 
were  higher  than  his  language,  and  he  would 
not  let  her  soil  her  refinement  with  any  vision  of 
the  pain  and  evil  in  the  world.     "Sort  of  woman 


THE  SEEKING  OF  BEALBY  143 

they  want  up  there  is  a  Trained  Nurse,"  he  used 
to  say  when  she  broached  the  possibility  of  going 
to  some  famine  or  disaster.  '^You  don't  want 
to  go  prying,  old  girl.  .  .  .'' 

She  suffered,  she  felt,  from  repressed  heroism. 
If  ever  she  was  to  shine  in  disaster  that  disaster, 
she  felt,  must  come  to  her,  she  might  not  go  to 
meet  it,  and  so  you  realize  how  deeply  it  stirred 
her,  ^ow  it  brightened  her  and  uplifted  her  to 
learn  from  Mr.  Mergleson's  halting  statements 
that  perhaps,  that  probably,  that  almost  cer- 
tainly, a  painful  and  tragical  thing  was  happening 
even  now  within  the  walls  of  Shonts,  that  there 
was  urgent  necessity  for  action  —  if  anguish  was 
to  be  witnessed  before  it  had  ended,  and  life  saved. 

She  clasped  her  hands ;  she  surveyed  her  large 
servitor  with  agonized  green-grey  eyes. 

"Something  must  be  done  at  once,''  she  said. 
"Everything  possible  must  be  done.  Poor  little 
Mite!" 

"Of  course,  my  lady,  'e  may  'ave  run  away !" 

"Oh  no!"  she  cried,  "he  hasn't  run  away. 
He  hasn't  run  away.  How  can  you  be  so  wicked, 
Mergleson.  Of  course  he  hasn't  run  away.  He's 
there  now.     And  it's  too  dreadful." 

She  became  suddenly  very  firm  and  masterful. 
The  morning's  colliery  tragedy  inspired  her 
imagination. 

"We  must  get  pick-axes,"  she  said.  "We 
must  organize  search  parties.  Not  a  moment  is 
to  be  lost,  Mergleson  —  not  a  moment.  .  .  .  Get 
the  men   in   off   the  roads.     Get  everyone  you 


can.  •  •  • 


144  BEALBY 

And  not  a  moment  was  lost.  The  road  men 
were  actually  at  work  in  Shonts  before  their 
proper  dinner-hour  was  over. 

They  did  quite  a  lot  of  things  that  afternoon. 
Every  passage  attainable  from  the  dining-room 
opening  was  explored,  and  where  these  passages 
gave  off  chinks  and  crannies  they  were  opened 
up  with  a  vigour  which  Lady  Laxton  had  greatly 
stimulated  by  an  encouraging  presence  and 
liberal  doses  of  whisky.  Through  their  efforts  a 
fine  new  opening  was  made  into  the  library 
from  the  wall  near  the  window,  a  hole  big  enough 
for  a  man  to  fall  through,  because  one  did,  and  a 
great  piece  of  stonework  was  thrown  down  from 
the  Queen  Elizabeth  tower,  exposing  the  upper 
portion  of  the  secret  passage  to  the  light  of  day. 
Lady  Laxton  herself  and  the  head  housemaid 
went  round  the  panelling  with  a  hammer  and  a 
chisel,  and  called  out  '^Are  you  there?"  and 
attempted  an  opening  wherever  it  sounded  hollow. 
The  sweep  was  sent  for  to  go  up  the  old  chimneys 
outside  the  present  flues.  Meanwhile  Mr.  Dar- 
ling had  been  set  with  several  of  his  men  to  dig 
for,  discover,  pick  up  and  lay  open  the  under- 
ground passage  or  disused  drain,  whichever  it  was, 
that  was  knov/n  to  run  from  the  corner  of  the 
laundry  towards  the  old  ice-house,  and  that  was 
supposed  to  reach  to  the  abbey  ruins.  After 
some  bold  exploratory  excavations  this  channel 
was  located  and  a  report  sent  at  once  to  Lady 
Laxton. 

It  was  this  and  the  new  and  alarming  scar  on 
the   Queen   Elizabeth   tower  that   brought   Mr. 


THE  SEEKING  OF  BEALBY  UB 

Beaulieu  Plummer  post-haste  from  the  estate 
office  up  to  the  house.  Mr.  BeauHeu  Plummer 
was  the  Marquis  of  Cranberry's  estate  agent,  a 
man  of  great  natural  tact,  and  charged  among 
other  duties  with  the  task  of  seeing  that  the 
Laxtons  did  not  make  away  with  Shonts  during 
the  peripd  of  their  tenancy.  He  was  a  sound 
compact  little  man,  rarely  out  of  extremely  riding 
breeches  and  gaiters,  and  he  wore  glasses,  that  now 
glittered  with  astonishment  as  he  approached 
Lady  Laxton  and  her  band  of  spade  workers. 

At  his  approach  Mr.  Darling  attempted  to 
become  invisible,  but  he  was  unable  to  do  so. 

"Lady  Laxton,"  Mr.  BeauHeu  Plummer  ap- 
pealed, "may  I  ask — ?" 

"Oh  Mr.  Beaulieu  Plummer,  I'm  so  glad 
youVe  come.  A  little  boy  —  suffocating !  I 
can  hardly  bear  it." 

"Suffocating!"  cried  Mr.  Beaulieu  Plummer, 
^^ where  f^'  and  was  in  a  confused  manner  told. 

He  asked  a  number  of  questions  that  Lady 
Laxton  found  very  tiresome.  But  how  did  she 
know  the  boy  was  in  the  secret  passage?  Of 
course  she  knew ;  was  it  likely  she  would  do  all 
this  if  she  didn't  know?  But  mightn't  he  have 
run  away?  How  could  he  when  he  was  in  the 
secret  passages?  But  why  not  first  scour  the 
countryside?  By  which  time  he  would  be 
smothered  and  starved  and  dead !  .  .  . 

They  parted  with  a  mutual  loss  of  esteem,  and 
Mr.  Beaulieu  Plummer,  looking  very  serious 
indeed,  ran  as  fast  as  he  could  straight  to  the 
village   telegraph-office.     Or   to  be   more   exact, 


146  BEALBY 

he  walked  until  he  thought  himself  out  of  sight 
of  Lady  Laxton  and  then  he  took  to  his  heels  and 
ran.  He  sat  for  some  time  in  the  parlour  post- 
office  spoiling  telegraph  forms,  and  composing 
telegrams  to  Sir  Peter  Laxton  and  Lord  Cran- 
berry. 

He  got  these  off  at  last,  and  then  drawn  by  an 
irresistible  fascination  went  back  to  the  park  and 
watched  from  afar  the  signs  of  fresh  activities 
on  the  part  of  Lady  Laxton. 

He  saw  men  coming  from  the  direction  of  the 
stables  with  large  rakes.  With  these  they  dragged 
the  ornamental  waters. 

Then  a  man  with  a  pick-axe  appeared  against 
the  skyline  and  crossed  the  roof  in  the  direction 
of  the  clock  tower,  bound  upon  some  unknown 
but  probably  highly  destructive  mission. 

Then  he  saw  Lady  Laxton  going  off  to  the 
gardens.  She  was  going  to  console  Mrs.  Darling 
in  her  trouble.  This  she  did  through  nearly  an 
hour  and  a  half.  And  on  the  whole  it  seemed 
well  to  Mr.  Beaulieu  Plummer  that  so  she  should 
be  occupied.  .  .  . 

It  was  striking  five  when  a  telegraph  boy  on  a 
bicycle  came  up  from  the  village  with  a  telegram 
from  Sir  Peter  Laxton. 

"Stop  all  proceedings  absolutely,*^  it  said, 
"until  I  get  to  you." 

Lady  Laxton's  lips  tightened  at  the  message. 
She  was  back  from  much  weeping  with  Mrs. 
Darling  and  altogether  finely  strung.  Here  she 
felt  was  one  of  those  supreme  occasions  when  a 
woman  must  assert  herself.     "A  matter  of  life 


THE  SEEKING  OF  BEALBY  147 

or  death/'  she  wired  in  reply,  and  to  show  herself 
how  completely  she  overrode  such  dictation  as 
this  she  sent  Mr.  Mergleson  down  to  the  village 
public-house  with  orders  to  engage  anyone  he 
could  find  there  for  an  evening's  work  on  an 
extraordinarily  liberal  overtime  scale. 

After  taking  this  step  the  spirit  of  Lady  Laxton 
quailed.  She  went  and  sat  in  her  own  room  and 
quivered.  She  quivered  but  she  clenched  her 
delicate  fist. 

She  would  go  through  with  it,  come  what  might, 
she  would  go  on  with  the  excavation  all  night 
if  necessary,  but  at  the  same  time  she  began  a 
little  to  regret  that  she  had  not  taken  earlier 
steps  to  demonstrate  the  improbability  of  Bealby 
having  simply  run  away.  She  set  to  work  to 
repair  this  omission.  She  wrote  off  to  the 
Superintendent  of  Police  in  the  neighbouring 
town,  to  the  nearest  police  magistrate,  and  then 
on  the  off  chance  to  various  of  her  week-end 
guests,  including  Captain  Douglas.  If  it  was 
true  that  he  had  organized  the  annoyance  of  the 
Lord  Chancellor  (and  though  she  still  rejected 
that  view  she  did  now  begin  to  regard  it  as  a 
permissible  hypothesis),  then  he  might  also  know 
something  about  the  mystery  of  this  boy's  dis- 
appearance. 

Each  letter  she  wrote  she  wrote  with  greater 
fatigue  and  haste  than  its  predecessor  and  more 
illegibly. 

Sir  Peter  arrived  long  after  dark.  He  cut  across 
the  corner  of  the  park  to  save  time,  and  fell  into 
one  of  the  trenches  that  Mr.  Darling  had  opened. 


148  BEALBY 

This  added  greatly  to  the  iclat  with  which  he  came 
into  the  hall. 

Lady  Laxton  withstood  him  for  five  minutes 
and  then  returned  abruptly  to  her  bedroom  and 
locked  herself  in,  leaving  the  control  of  the  opera- 
tions in  his  hands.  .  .  . 

"If  he^s  not  in  the  house/'  said  Sir  Peter,  "all 
this  is  thunderin'  foolery,  and  if  he's  in  the  house 
he's  dead.  If  he's  dead  he'll  smell  in  a  bit  and 
then'll  be  the  time  to  look  for  him.  Some- 
thin'  to  go  upon  instead  of  all  this  blind  hacking 
the  place  about.  No  wonder  they're  threatenin' 
proceedings.  ..." 

§4 

Upon  Captain  Douglas  Lady  Laxton's  letter 
was  destined  to  have  a  very  distracting  effect. 
Because,  as  he  came  to  think  it  over,  as  he  came  to 
put  her  partly  illegible  allusions  to  secret  passages 
and  a  missing  boy  side  by  side  with  his  memories 
of  Lord  Moggeridge's  accusations  and  the  general 
mystery  of  his  expulsion  from  Shonts,  it  became 
more  and  more  evident  to  him  that  he  had  here 
something  remarkably  Hke  a  clue,  something  that 
might  serve  to  lift  the  black  suspicion  of  irrev- 
erence and  levity  from  his  military  reputation. 
And  he  had  already  got  to  the  point  of  suggesting 
to  Miss  Philips  that  he  ought  to  follow  up  and 
secure  Bealby  forthwith,  before  ever  they  came 
over  the  hill  crest  to  witness  the  disaster  to  the 
caravan. 

Captain  Douglas,  it  must  be  understood,  was 
a  young  man  at  war  within  himself. 


THE  SEEKING  OF  BEALBY  149 

He  had  been  very  nicely  brought  up,  firstly 
in  a  charming  English  home,  then  in  a  preparatory 
school  for  selected  young  gentlemen,  then  in  a 
good  set  at  Eton,  then  at  Sandhurst,  where  the 
internal^  trouble  had  begun  to  manifest  itself. 
Afterwards  the  Bistershires. 

There  were  three  main  strands  in  the  composi- 
tion of  Captain  Douglas.  In  the  first  place,  and 
what  was  peculiarly  his  own  quality,  was  the 
keenest  interest  in  the  why  of  things  and  the  how 
of  things  and  the  general  mechanism  of  things. 
He  was  fond  of  clocks,  curious  about  engines, 
eager  for  science;  he  had  a  quick  brain  and 
nimble  hands.  He  read  Jules  Verne  and  liked 
to  think  about  going  to  the  stars  and  making  fly- 
ing machines  and  submarines  —  in  those  days 
when  everybody  knew  quite  certainly  that  such 
things  were  impossible.  His  brain  teemed  with 
larval  ideas  that  only  needed  air  and  light  to 
become  active  full-fledged  ideas.  There  he  ex- 
celled most  of  us.  In  the  next  place,  but  this 
second  strand  was  just  a  strand  that  most  young 
men  have,  he  had  a  natural  keen  interest  in  the 
other  half  of  humanity,  he  thought  them  lovely, 
interesting,  wonderful,  and  they  filled  him  with 
warm  curiosities  and  set  his  imagination  cutting 
the  prettiest  capers.  And  in  the  third  place,  and 
there  again  he  was  ordinarily  human,  he  wanted 
to  be  liked,  admired,  approved,  well  thought  of. 
.  .  .  And  so  constituted  he  had  passed  through 
the  educational  influence  of  that  English  home, 
that  preparatory  school,  the  good  set  at  Eton,  the 
Sandhurst  discipline,  the  Bistershire  mess.  .... 


150  BEALBY 

Now  the  educational  influence  of  the  English 
home,  the  preparatory  school,  the  good  set  at 
Eton  and  Sandhurst  in  those  days  —  though 
Sandhurst  has  altered  a  little  since  —  was  all  to 
develop  that  third  chief  strand  of  his  being  to 
the  complete  suppression  of  the  others,  to  make 
him  look  well  and  unobtrusive,  dress  well  and 
unobtrusively,  behave  well  and  unobtrusively, 
carry  himself  well,  play  games  reasonably  well, 
do  nothing  else  well,  and  in  the  best  possible  form. 
And  the  two  brothers  Douglas,  who  were  really 
very  much  alike,  did  honestly  do  their  best  to  be 
such  plain  and  simple  gentlemen  as  our  country 
demands,  taking  pretentious  established  things 
seriously,  and  not  being  odd  or  intelligent  —  in 
spite  of  those  insurgent  strands. 

But  the  strands  were  in  them.  Below  the 
surface  the  disturbing  impulses  worked  and  at 
last  forced  their  way  out.  .  .  . 

In  one  Captain  Douglas,  as  Mrs.  Rampound 
Pilby  told  the  Lord  Chancellor,  the  suppressed 
ingenuity  broke  out  in  disconcerting  mystifications 
and  practical  jokes  that  led  to  a  severance  from 
Portsmouth,  in  the  other  the  pent-up  passions 
came  out  before  the  other  ingredients  in  an  un- 
controllable devotion  to  the  obvious  and  challeng- 
ing femininity  of  Miss  Madeleine  Philips.  .  .  . 
His  training  had  made  him  proof  against  or- 
dinary women,  deaf  as  it  were  to  their  charms, 
but  she  —  she  had  penetrated.  And  impulsive 
forces  that  have  been  pent  up  —  go  with  a  bang 
when  they  go.  .  .  . 

The  first  strand  in  the  composition  of  Captain 


THE  SEEKING  OF  BEALBY  151 

Douglas  has  still  to  be  accounted  for,  the  sinister 
strain  of  intelligence  and  inventiveness  and 
lively  curiosity.  On  that  he  had  kept  a  warier 
hold.  So  far  that  had  not  been  noted  against 
him.  He  had  his  motor  bicycle,  it  is  true,  at  a 
time  when  motor  bicycles  were  on  the  verge  of 
the  caddish ;  to  that  extent  a  watchful  eye  might 
have  found  him  suspicious;  that  was  all  that 
showed.  I  wish  I  could  add  it  was  all  that  there 
was,  but  other  things  —  other  things  were  going 
on.  Nobody  knew  about  them.  But  they  were 
going  on  more  and  more. 

He  read  books. 

Not  decent  fiction,  not  official  biographies 
about  other  fellows'  fathers  and  all  the  old  anec- 
dotes brought  up  to  date  and  so  on,  but  books 
with  ideas,  —  you  know,  philosophy,  social  phi- 
losophy, scientific  stuff,  all  that  rot.  The  sort  of 
stuff  they  read  in  mechanics'  institutes. 

He  thought.  He  could  have  controlled  it. 
But  he  did  not  attempt  to  control  it.  He  tried 
to  think.  He  knew  perfectly  well  that  it  wasn't 
good  form,  but  a  vicious  attraction  drew  him  on. 

He  used  to  sit  in  his  bedroom-study  at  Sand- 
hurst, with  the  door  locked,  and  write  down  on  a 
bit  of  paper  what  he  really  believed  and  why. 
He  would  cut  all  sorts  of  things  to  do  this.  He 
would  question  —  things  no  properly  trained 
English  gentleman  ever  questions. 

And  —  he  experimented. 

This  you  know  was  long  before  the  French  and 
American  aviators.  It  was  long  before  the  com- 
ing of  that  emphatic  lead  from  abroad  without 


152  BEALBY 

which  no  well-bred  English  mind  permits  itself 
to  stir.  In  the  darkest  secrecy  he  used  to  make 
little  models  of  cane  and  paper  and  elastic  in 
the  hope  that  somehow  he  would  find  out  some- 
thing about  flying.  Flying  —  that  dream  !  He 
used  to  go  off  by  himself  to  lonely  places  and  climb 
up  as  high  as  he  could  and  send  these  things 
fluttering  earthward.  He  used  to  moon  over 
them  and  muse  about  them.  If  anyone  came 
upon  him  suddenly  while  he  was  doing  these 
things,  he  would  sit  on  his  model,  or  pretend  it 
didn^t  belong  to  him,  or  clap  it  into  his  pocket, 
whichever  was  most  convenient,  and  assume 
the  vacuous  expression  of  a  well-bred  gentleman 
at  leisure  —  and  so  far  nobody  had  caught  him. 
But  it  was  a  dangerous  practice. 

And  finally,  and  this  now  is  the  worst  and  last 
thing  to  tell  of  his  eccentricities,  he  was  keenly 
interested  in  the  science  of  his  profession  and  in- 
tensely ambitious. 

He  thought  —  though  it  wasn't  his  business  to 
think,  the  business  of  a  junior  officer  is  to  obey 
and  look  a  credit  to  his  regiment  —  that  the  mili- 
tary science  of  the  British  army  was  not  nearly  so 
bright  as  it  ought  to  be,  and  that  if  big  trouble 
came  there  might  be  considerable  scope  for  an 
inventive  man  who  had  done  what  he  could  to 
keep  abreast  with  foreign  work,  and  a  consider- 
able weeding  out  of  generals  whose  promotion  had 
been  determined  entirely  by  their  seniority,  ami- 
ability and  unruffled  connubial  felicity.  He 
thought  that  the  field  artillery  would  be  found 
out  —  there  was  no  good  in  making  a  fuss  about 


THE  SEEKING  OF  BEALBY  153 

it  beforehand  —  that  no  end  of  neglected  dodges 
would  have  to  be  picked  up  from  the  enemy,  that 
the  transport  was  feeble,  and  a  health  service  — 
other  than  surgery  and  ambulance  —  an  unknown 
idea,  but  he  saw  no  remedy  but  experience.  So 
he  worked  hard  in  secret ;  he  worked  almost  as 
hard  as  some  confounded  foreigner  might  have 
done;  in  the  belief  that  after  the  first  horrid 
smash-up  there  might  be  a  chance  to  do  things. 

Outwardly  of  course  he  was  sedulously  all  right. 
But  he  could  not  quite  hide  the  stir  in  his  mind. 
It  broke  out  upon  his  surface  in  a  chattering 
activity  of  incompleted  sentences  which  he  tried  to 
keep  as  decently  silly  as  he  could.  He  had  done 
his  utmost  hitherto  to  escape  the  observation  of  the 
powers  that  were.  His  infatuation  for  Madeleine 
Philips  had  at  any  rate  distracted  censorious  at- 
tention from  these  deeper  infamies.   .  .  . 

And  now  here  was  a  crisis  in  his  life.  Through 
some  idiotic  entanglement  manifestly  connected 
with  this  missing  boy,  he  had  got  tarred  by  his 
brother's  brush  and  was  under  grave  suspicion 
for  liveliness  and  disrespect. 

The  thing  might  be  his  professional  ruin. 
And  he  loved  the  suppressed  possibilities  of  his 
work  beyond  measure. 

It  was  a  thing  to  make  him  absent-minded 
even  in  the  company  of  Madeleine. 

§5 

Not  only  were  the  first  and  second  strands  in 
the  composition  of  Captain  Douglas  in  conflict 


154  BEALBY 

with  all  his  appearances  and  pretensions,  but 
they  were  also  in  conflict  with  one  another. 

He  was  full  of  that  concealed  resolve  to  do 
and  serve  and  accomplish  great  things  in  the 
world.  That  was  surely  purpose  enough  to  hide 
behind  an  easy-going  unpretending  gentlemanli- 
ness.  But  he  was  also  tremendously  attracted 
by  Madeleine  Philips,  more  particularly  when 
she  was  not  there. 

A  beautiful  woman  may  be  the  inspiration  of 
a  great  career.  This,  however,  he  was  beginning 
to  find  was  not  the  case  with  himself.  He  had 
believed  it  at  first  and  written  as  much  and  said 
as  much,  and  said  it  very  variously  and  gracefully. 
But  becoming  more  and  more  distinctly  clear  to 
his  intelligence  was  the  fact  that  the  very  reverse 
was  the  case.  Miss  Madeleine  Philips  was  making 
it  very  manifest  to  Captain  Douglas  that  she 
herself  was  a  career ;  that  a  lover  with  any  other 
career  in  view  need  not  —  as  the  advertisements 
say  —  apply. 

And  the  time  she  took  up ! 

The  distress  of  being  with  her ! 

And  the  distress  of  not  being  with  her ! 

She  was  such  a  proud  and  lovely  and  entrancing 
and  distressing  being  to  remember,  and  such  a 
vain  and  difficult  thing  to  be  with. 

She  knew  clearly  that  she  was  made  for  love, 
for  she  had  made  herself  for  love ;  and  she  went 
through  life  like  its  empress  with  all  mankind 
and  numerous  women  at  her  feet.  And  she  had 
an  ideal  of  the  lover  who  should  win  her  which 
was  like  a  oleographic  copy  of  a  Laszlo  portrait  of 


THE  SEEKING  OF  BEALBY  155 

Douglas  greatly  magnified.  He  was  to  rise  rapidly 
to  great  things,  he  was  to  be  a  conqueror  and  ad- 
ministrator, while  attending  exclusively  to  her. 
And  incidentally  she  would  gather  desperate  hom- 
age from  all  other  men  of  mark,  and  these  atten- 
tions would  be  an  added  glory  to  her  love  for  him. 
At  first  Captain  Douglas  had  been  quite  prepared 
to  satisfy  all  these  requirements.  He  had  met  her 
at  Shorncliffe,  for  her  people  were  quite  good  mili- 
tary people,  and  he  had  worshipped  his  way  straight 
to  her  feet.  He  had  made  the  most  delightfully 
simple  and  delicate  love  to  her.  He  had  given  up 
his  secret  vice  of  thinking  for  the  writing  of  quite 
surprisingly  clever  love-letters,  and  the  little  white 
paper  models  had  ceased  for  a  time  to  flutter  in 
lonely  places. 

And  then  the  thought  of  his  career  returned  to 
him,  from  a  new  aspect,  as  something  he  might 
lay  at  her  feet.  And  once  it  had  returned  to  him 
it  remained  with  him. 

"Some  day,"  he  said,  "and  it  may  not  be  so 
very  long,  some  of  those  scientific  chaps  will 
invent  flying.  Then  the  army  will  have  to  take 
it  up,  you  know." 

"I  should  Zo2;e,"  she  said,  "to  soar  through  the 
air." 

He  talked  one  day  of  going  on  active  service. 
How  would  it  affect  them  if  he  had  to  do  so? 
It  was  a  necessary  part  of  a  soldier's  lot. 

"But  I  should  come  too  !"  she  said.  "I  should 
come  with  you." 

"It  might  not  be  altogether  convenient,"  he 
said;  for  already  he  had  learnt  that   Madeleine 


156  BEALBY 

Philips  usually  travelled  with  quite  a  large  number 
of  trunks  and  considerable  impressiveness. 

"Of  course/'  she  said,  "it  would  be  splendid! 
How  could  I  let  you  go  alone.  You  would  be  the 
great  general  and  I  should  be  with  you  always/' 

"Not  always  very  comfortable/'  he  suggested. 

"Silly  boy!  —  I  shouldn't  mind  that!  How 
little  you  know  me !    Any  hardship  !" 

"A  woman  —  if  she  isn't  a  nurse  — " 

"I  should  come  dressed  as  a  man.  I  would  be 
your  groom.  .  .  ." 

He  tried  to  think  of  her  dressed  as  a  man,  but 
nothing  on  earth  could  get  his  imagination  any 
further  than  a  vision  of  her  dressed  as  a  Principal 
Boy.  She  was  so  delightfully  and  valiantly  not 
virile ;  her  hair  would  have  flowed,  her  body 
would  have  moved,  a  richly  fluent  femininity  — 
visible  through  any  disguise. 

§6 

That  was  in  the  opening  stage  of  the  con- 
troversy between  their  careers.  In  those  days 
they  were  both  acutely  in  love  with  each  other. 
Their  friends  thought  the  spectacle  quite  beautiful ; 
they  went  together  so  well.  Admirers,  fluttered 
with  the  pride  of  participation,  asked  them  for 
week-ends  together;  those  theatrical  week-ends 
that  begin  on  Sunday  morning  and  end  on  Monday 
afternoon.     She  confided  widely. 

And  when  at  last  there  was  something  like  a 
rupture  it  became  the  concern  of  a  large  circle  of 
friends. 


THE  SEEKING  OF  BEALBY  167 

The  particulars  of  the  breach  were  differently 
stated.  It  would  seem  that  looking  ahead  he  had 
announced  his  intention  of  seeing  the  French  army 
manoeuvres  just  when  it  seemed  probable  that 
she  would  be  out  of  an  engagement. 

•""But  I  ought  to  see  what  they  are  doing/^  he 
said.  "They're  going  to  try  those  new  diri- 
gibles.'^ 

Then  should  she  come? 

He  wanted  to  whisk  about.  It  wouldn't  be 
any  fun  for  her.  They  might  get  landed  at  night- 
fall in  any  old  hole.  And  besides  people  would 
talk  —  Especially  as  it  was  in  France.  One 
could  do  unconventional  things  in  England  one 
couldn't  in  France.     Atmosphere   was  different. 

For  a  time  after  that  halting  explanation  she 
maintained  a  silence.  Then  she  spoke  in  a  voice 
of  deep  feeling.  She  perceived,  she  said,  that 
he  wanted  his  freedom.  She  would  be  the  last 
person  to  hold  a  reluctant  lover  to  her  side. 
He  might  go  —  to  any  manoeuvres.  He  might 
go  if  he  wished  round  the  world.  He  might  go 
away  from  her  for  ever.  She  would  not  detain 
him,  cripple  him,  hamper  a  career  she ,  had  once 
been  assured  she  inspired.  .  .  . 

The  unfortunate  man,  torn  between  his  love 
and  his  profession,  protested  that  he  hadn't 
meant  that. 

Then  what  had  he  meant? 

He  realized  he  had  meant  something  remark- 
ably like  it  and  he  found  great  difficulty  in  ex- 
pressing these  fine  distinctions.  .  .  . 

She  banished   him   from   her    presence   for  a 


158  BEALBY 

month,  said  he  might  go  to  his  manoeuvres  — 
with  her  blessing.  As  for  herself,  that  was  her 
own  affair.  Some  day  perhaps  he  might  know 
more  of  the  heart  of  a  woman.  .  .  .  She  choked 
back  tears  —  very  beautifully,  and  military 
science  suddenly  became  a  trivial  matter.  But 
she  was  firm.  He  wanted  to  go.  He  must  go. 
For  a  month  anyhow. 

He  went  sadly.  .  .  . 

Into  this  opening  breach  rushed  friends.  It 
was  the  inestimable  triumph  of  Judy  Bowles  to  get 
there  first.  To  begin  with,  Madeleine  confided 
in  her,  and  then,  availing  herself  of  the  privilege 
of  a  distant  cousinship,  she  commanded  Douglas 
to  tea  in  her  Knightsbridge  flat  and  had  a  good 
straight  talk  with  him.  She  liked  good  straight 
talks  with  honest  young  men  about  their  love 
affairs ;  it  was  almost  the  only  form  of  flirtation 
that  the  Professor,  who  was  a  fierce,  tough,  un- 
discriminating  man  upon  the  essentials  of  matri- 
mony, permitted  her.  And  there  was  something 
peculiarly  gratifying  about  Douglas's  complexion. 
Under  her  guidance  he  was  induced  to  declare 
that  he  could  not  live  without  Madeleine,  that  her 
love  was  the  heart  of  his  life,  without  it  he  was 
nothing  and  with  it  he  could  conquer  the  world. 
.  .  .  Judy  permitted  herself  great  protestations 
on  behalf  of  Madeleine,  and  Douglas  was  worked 
up  to  the  pitch  of  kissing  her  intervening  hand. 
He  had  little  silvery  hairs,  she  saw,  all  over  his 
temples.  And  he  was  such  a  simple  perplexed  dear. 
It  was  a  rich  deep  beautiful  afternoon  for  Judy. 

And  then  in  a  very  obvious  way  Judy,  who  was 


THE  SEEKING  OF  BEALBY         •  159 

already  deeply  in  love  with  the  idea  of  a  caravan 
tour  and  the  "wind  on  the  heath"  and  the  "Gipsy 
life"  and  the  "open  road"  and  all  the  rest  of  it, 
worked  this  charming  little  love  difficulty  into 
her  scheme,  utilized  her  reluctant  husband  to 
arrange  for  the  coming  of  Douglas,  confided  in 
Mrs.  Geedge.  .  .  . 

And  Douglas  went  off  with  his  perplexities. 
He  gave  up  all  thought  of  France,  week-ended 
at  Shonts  instead,  to  his  own  grave  injury,  re- 
turned to  London  unexpectedly  by  a  Sunday 
train,  packed  for  France  and  started.  He  reached 
Rheims  on  Monday  afternoon.  And  then  the 
image  of  Madeleine,  which  always  became  more 
beautiful  and  mysterious  and  commanding  with 
every  mile  he  put  between  them,  would  not  let 
him  go  on.  He  made  unconvincing  excuses  to 
the  Daily  Excess  military  expert  with  whom  he 
was  to  have  seen  things  "  There's  a  woman  in  it, 
my  boy,  and  you're  a  fool  to  go,"  said  the  Daily 
Excess  man,  "but  of  course  you'll  go,  and  I  for 
one  don't  blame  you  — "  He  hurried  back  to 
London  and  was  at  Judy's  trysting-place  even 
as  Judy  had  anticipated. 

And  when  he  saw  Madeleine  standing  in  the 
sunlight,  pleased  and  proud  and  glorious,  with  a 
smile  in  her  eyes  and  trembling  on  her  lips,  with 
a  strand  or  so  of  her  beautiful  hair  and  a  streamer 
or  so  of  delightful  blue  fluttering  in  the  wind  about 
her  gracious  form,  it  seemed  to  him  for  the  mo- 
ment that  leaving  the  manoeuvres  and  coming 
back  to  England  was  quite  a  right  and  almost 
a  magnificent  thing  to  do. 


160  BEALBY 

§7 

This  meeting  was  no  exception  to  their  other 
meetings. 

The  coming  to  her  was  a  crescendo  of  poetical 
desire,  the  sight  of  her  a  climax,  and  then  —  an 
accumulation  of  irritations.  He  had  thought 
being  with  her  would  be  pure  delight,  and  as 
they  went  over  the  down  straying  after  the 
Bowles  and  the  Geedges  towards  the  Redlake 
Hotel  he  already  found  himself  rather  urgently 
asking  her  to  marry  him  and  being  annoyed  bj'' 
what  he  regarded  as  her  evasiveness. 

He  walked  along  with  the  restrained  movement 
of  a  decent  Englishman ;  he  seemed  as  it  were  to 
gesticulate  only  through  his  clenched  teeth,  and 
she  floated  beside  him,  in  a  wonderful  blue  dress 
that  with  a  wonderful  foresight  she  had  planned 
for  breezy  uplands  on  the  basis  of  BotticelU's 
Primavera.  He  was  urging  her  to  marry  him 
soon ;  he  needed  her,  he  could  not  live  in  peace 
without  her.  It  was  not  at  all  what  he  had 
come  to  say ;  he  could  not  recollect  that  he  had 
come  to  say  anything,  but  now  that  he  was  with 
her  it  was  the  only  thing  he  could  find  to  say  to 
her. 

"But,  my  dearest  boy,''  she  said,  "how  are 
we  to  marry?  What  is  to  become  of  your  career 
and  my  career?" 

"IVe  left  my  career!"  cried  Captain  Douglas 
with  the  first  clear  note  of  irritation  in  his  voice. 

"Oh  !  don't  let  us  quarrel,"  she  cried.  "Don't 
let  us  talk  of  all  those  distant  things.     Let  us  be 


THE  SEEKING  OF  BEALBY  161 

happy.  Let  us  enjoy  just  this  lovely  day  and 
the  sunshine  and  the  freshness  and  the  beauty. 
.  .  .  Because  you  know  we  are  snatching  these 
days.  We  have  so  few  days  together.  Each  — 
each  must  be  a  gem.  .  .  .  Look,  dear,  how  the 
breeze  sweeps  through  these  tall  dry  stems  that 
stick  up  everywhere  —  low  broad  ripples." 

She  was  a  perfect  work  of  art,  abolishing  time 
and  obligations. 

For  a  time  they  walked  in  silence.  Then 
Captain  Douglas  said,  "All  very  well  —  beauty 
and  all  that  —  but  a  fellow  likes  to  know  where 
he  is." 

She  did  not  answer  immediately,  and  then  she 
said,  "I  believe  you  are  angry  because  you  have 
come  away  from  France." 

"Not  a  bit  of  it,"  said  the  Captain  stoutly. 
"I'd  come  away  from  anywhere  to  be  with  you." 

"I  wonder,"  she  said. 

"Well,  — haven't  I?" 

"I  wonder  if  you  ever  are  with  me.  .  .  .  Oh ! 
—  I  know  you  want  me.  I  know  you  desire  me. 
But  the  real  thing,  the  happiness,  —  love.  What 
is  anything  to  love  —  anything  at  all?" 

In  this  strain  they  continued  until  their  foot- 
steps led  them  through  the  shelter  of  a  group  of 
beeches.  And  there  the  gallant  captain  sought 
expression  in  deeds.  He  kissed  her  hands,  he 
sought  her  lips.     She  resisted  softly. 

"No,"  she  said,  "only  if  you  love  me  with  all 
your  heart." 

Then  suddenly,  wonderfully,  conqueringly  she 
yielded  him  her  lips. 

M 


162  BEALBY 

"Oh!"  she  sighed  presently,  "if  only  you 
understood." 

And  leaving  speech  at  that  enigma  she  kissed 
again.  ... 

But  you  see  now  how  difficult  it  was  under 
these  mystically  loving  conditions  to  introduce 
the  idea  of  a  prompt  examination  and  dispatch 
of  Bealby.  Already  these  days  were  conse- 
crated. .  .  . 

And  then  you  see  Bealby  vanished  —  going 
seaward.  .  .  . 

Even  the  crash  of  the  caravan  disaster  did  little 
to  change  the  atmosphere.  In  spite  of  a  certain 
energetic  quality  in  the  Professor^s  direction  of 
the  situation  —  he  was  a  little  embittered  because 
his  thumb  was  sprained  and  his  knee  bruised 
rather  badly  and  he  had  a  slight  abrasion  over  one 
ear  and  William  had  bitten  his  calf  —  the  general 
disposition  was  to  treat  the  affair  hilariously. 
Nobody  seemed  really  hurt  except  William,  — 
the  Professor  was  not  so  much  hurt  as  annoyed,  — 
and  William's  injuries  though  striking  were  all 
superficial,  a  sprained  jaw  and  grazes  and  bruises 
and  little  things  like  that;  everybody  was 
heartened  up  to  the  idea  of  damages  to  be  paid 
for;  and  neither  the  internal  injuries  to  the 
caravan  nor  the  hawker's  estimate  of  his  stock- 
in-trade  proved  to  be  as  great  as  one  might 
reasonably  have  expected.  Before  sunset  the 
caravan  was  safely  housed  in  the  Winthorpe- 
Sutbury  public  house,  William  had  found  a 
congenial  corner  in  the  bar  parlour,  where  his 
account  of  an  inside  view  of  the  catastrophe 


THE  SEEKING  OF  BEALBY  163 

and  his  views  upon  Professor  Bowles  were  much 
appreciated,  the  hawker  had  made  a  bit  extra 
by  carting  all  the  luggage  to  the  Redlake  Royal 
Hotel  and  the  caravanners  and  their  menfolk 
had  loitered  harmoniously  back  to  this  refuge. 
Madeleine  had  walked  along  the  road  beside 
Captain  Douglas  and  his  motor  bicycle,  which  he 
had  picked  up  at  the  now  desolate  encampment. 

"It  only  remains/'  she  said,  "for  that  thing 
to  get  broken." 

"But  I  may  want  it,"  he  said. 

"No,"  she  said,  "Heaven  has  poured  us  to- 
gether and  now  He  has  smashed  the  vessels. 
At  least  He  has  smashed  one  of  the  vessels.  And 
look !  —  Hke  a  great  shield,  there  is  the  moon. 
It's  the  Harvest  Moon,  isn't  it?" 

"No,"  said  the  Captain,  with  his  poetry  run- 
ning away  with  him.     "It's  the  Lovers'  Moon." 

"It's  like  a  benediction  rising  over  our  meet- 
ing." 

And  it  was  certainly  far  too  much  like  a  bene- 
diction for  the  Captain  to  talk  about  Bealby. 

That  night  was  a  perfect  night  for  lovers,  a 
night  flooded  with  a  kindly  radiance,  so  that  the 
warm  mystery  of  the  centre  of  life  seemed  to  lurk 
in  every  shadow  and  hearts  throbbed  instead 
of  beating  and  eyes  were  stars.  After  dinner 
every  one  found  wraps  and  slipped  out  into  the 
moonlight ;  the  Geedges  vanished  like  moths ; 
the  Professor  made  no  secret  that  Judy  was 
transfigured  for  him.  Night  works  these  miracles. 
The  only  other  visitors  there,  a  brace  of  couples, 
resorted  to  the  boats  upon  the  little  lake. 


164  BEALBY 

Two  enormous  waiters  removing  the  coffee 
cups  from  the  small  tables  upon  the  verandah 
heard  Madeleine's  beautiful  voice  for  a  little  while 
and  then  it  was  stilled.  .  .  . 

§8 

The  morning  found  Captain  Douglas  in  a  state 
of  reaction.  He  was  anxious  to  explain  quite 
clearly  to  Madeleine  just  how  necessary  it  was 
that  he  should  go  in  search  of  Bealby  forthwith. 
He  was  beginning  to  realize  now  just  what  a 
chance  in  the  form  of  Bealby  had  slipped  through 
his  fingers.  He  had  dropped  Bealby  and  now  the 
thing  to  do  was  to  pick  up  Bealby  again  before 
he  was  altogether  lost.  Her  professional  life 
unfortunately  had  given  Miss  Philips  the  habit 
of  never  rising  before  midday,  and  the  Captain 
had  to  pass  the  time  as  well  as  he  could  until 
the  opportunity  for  his  explanation  came. 

A  fellow  couldn't  go  off  without  an  explana- 
tion. ... 

He  passed  the  time  with  Professor  Bowles  upon 
the  golf  links. 

The  Professor  was  a  first-rate  player  and  an 
unselfish  one ;  he  wanted  all  other  players  to  be 
as  good  as  himself.  He  would  spare  no  pains  to 
make  them  so.  If  he  saw  them  committing  any 
of  the  many  errors  into  which  golfers  fall,  he  would 
tell  them  of  it  and  tell  them  why  it  was  an  error 
and  insist  upon  showing  them  just  how  to  avoid  it 
in  future.  He  would  point  out  any  want  of 
judgment;,  and  not  confine  himself;  as  so   many 


THE  SEEKING  OF  BEALBY  165 

professional  golf  teachers  do,  merely  to  the  stroke. 
After  a  time  he  found  it  necessary  to  hint  to  the 
Captain  that  nowadays  a  military  man  must 
accustom  himself  to  self  control.  The  Captain 
kept  Pishing  and  Tushing,  and  presently,  it  was 
only  too  evident,  swearing  softly;  his  play  got 
jerky,  his  strokes  were  forcible  without  any  real 
strength,  once  he  missed  the  globe  altogether  and 
several  times  he  sliced  badly.  The  eyes  under 
his  light  eyelashes  were  wicked  little  things. 

He  remembered  that  he  had  always  detested  golf. 

And  the  Professor.  He  had  always  detested 
the  Professor. 

And  his  caddie ;  at  least  he  would  have  always 
detested  his  caddie  if  he  had  known  him  long 
enough.  His  caddie  was  one  of  those  maddening 
boys  with  no  expression  at  all.  It  didn't  matter 
what  he  did  or  failed  to  do,  there  was  the  silly 
idiot  with  his  stuffed  face,  unmoved.  Really,  of 
course  overjoyed — but  apparently  unmoved.  .  .  . 

"Why  did  I  play  it  that  way?"  the  Captain 
repeated.  "  Oh  !  because  I  like  to  play  it  that 
way.'' 

"TFeZ?,"  said  the  Professor.  "It  isn't  a  recog- 
nized way  anyhow.  ..." 

Then  came  a  moment  of  evil  pleasures. 

He'd  sliced.  Old  Bowles  had  sliced.  For 
once  in  a  while  he'd  muffed  something.  Always 
teaching  others  and  here  he  was  slicing !  Why, 
sometimes  the  Captain  didn't  slice !  .  .  . 

He'd  get  out  of  that  neatly  enough.  Luck ! 
He'd  get  the  hole  yet.    What  a  bore  it  all  was ! 


(It 


166  BEALBY 

Why  couldn't  Madeleine  get  up  at  a  decent 
hour  to  see  a  fellow?  Why  must  she  lie  in  bed 
when  she  wasn't  acting?  If  she  had  got  up  all 
this  wouldn't  have  happened.  The  shame  of 
it !  Here  he  was,  an  able-bodied  capable  man  in 
the  prime  of  life  and  the  morning  of  a  day  playing 
this  blockhead's  game  — ! 

Yes  —  blockhead's  game ! 

"You  play  the  like/'  said  the  Professor. 

^^ Rather/^  said  the  Captain  and  addressed 
himself  to  his  stroke. 

That's  not  your  ball,"  said  the  Professor. 
Similar  position,"  said  the  Captain. 

"You  know,  you  might  win  this  hole,"  said 
the  Professor. 

"Who  cares?"  said  the  Captain  under  his 
breath  and  putted  extravagantly. 

"That  saves  me,"  said  the  Professor,  and  went 
down  from  a  distance  of  twelve  yards. 

The  Captain,  full  of  an  irrational  resentment, 
did  his  best  to  halve  the  hole  and  failed. 

"You  ought  to  put  in  a  week  at  nothing  but 
putting,"  said  the  Professor.  "It  would  save 
you  at  least  a  stroke  a  hole.  I've  noticed  that 
on  almost  every  green,  if  I  haven't  beaten  you 
before  I  pull  up  in  the  putting." 

The  Captain  pretended  not  to  hear  and  said  a 
lot  of  rococo  things  inside  himself. 

It  was  Madeleine  who  had  got  him  in  for  this 
game.  A  beautiful  healthy  girl  ought  to  get  up 
in  the  mornings.  Mornings  and  beautiful  healthy 
girls  are  all  the  same  thing  really.  She  ought 
to  be  dewy  —  positively  dewy.  .  .  .    There  she 


THE  SEEKING  OF  BEALBY  167 

must  be  lying,  warm  and  beautiful  in  bed  —  like 
Catherine  the  Great  or  somebody  of  that  sort. 
No.  It  wasn't  right.  All  very  luxurious  and  so 
on  but  not  right.  She  ought  to  have  understood 
that  he  was  bound  to  fall  a  prey  to  the  Professor 
if  she  didn't  get  up.  Golf!  Here  he  was,  neg- 
lecting his  career ;  hanging  about  on  these  beastly 
links,  all  the  sound  men  away  there  in  France  — 
it  didn't  do  to  think  of  it !  —  and  he  was  playing 
this  retired  tradesman's  consolation  I 

(Beastly  the  Professor's  legs  looked  from  behind. 
The  uglier  a  man's  legs  are  the  better  he  plays 
golf.     It's  almost  a  law.) 

That's  what  it  was,  a  retired  tradesman's 
consolation.  A  decent  British  soldier  has  no  more 
business  to  be  playing  golf  than  he  has  to  be 
dressing  dolls.  It's  a  game  at  once  worthless  and 
exasperating.  If  a  man  isn't  perfectly  fit  he 
cannot  play  golf,  and  when  he  is  perfectly  fit  he 
ought  to  be  doing  a  man's  work  in  the  world. 
If  ever  anything  deserved  the  name  of  vice, 
if  ever  anything  was  pure,  unforgivable  dissipa- 
tion, surely  golf  was  that  thing.  .  .  . 

And  meanwhile  that  boy  was  getting  more  and 
more  start.  Anyone  with  a  ha'porth  of  sense 
would  have  been  up  at  five  and  after  that  brat  — 
might  have  had  him  bagged  and  safe  and  back 
to  lunch.     Ass  one  was  at  times ! 

"You're  here,  sir,"  said  the  caddie. 

The  captain  perceived  he  was  in  a  nasty  place, 
open  green  ahead  but  with  some  tumbled  country 
near  at  hand  and  to  the  left,  a  rusty  old  gravel 
pit,  furze  at  the  sides,  water  at  the  bottom. 


168  BEALBY 

Nasty  attractive  hole  of  a  place.  Sort  of  thing 
one  gets  into.  He  must  pull  himself  together  for 
this.  After  all,  having  undertaken  to  play  a  game 
one  must  play  the  game.  If  he  hit  the  infernal 
thing,  that  is  to  say  the  ball,  if  he  hit  the  ball 
so  that  if  it  didn't  go  straight  it  would  go  to  the 
right  rather  —  clear  of  the  hedge  it  wouldn't 
be  so  bad  to  the  right.  Difficult  to  manage. 
Best  thing  was  to  think  hard  of  the  green  ahead,  a 
long  way  ahead, — with  just  the  slightest  deflection 
to  the  right.  Now  then,  —  heels  well  down,  club 
up,  a  good  swing,  keep  your  eye  on  the  ball,  keep 
your  eye  on  the  ball,  keep  your  eye  on  the  ball 
just  where  you  mean  to  hit  it  —  far  below  there 
and  a  little  to  the  right  —  and  donH  worry.  .  .  . 

Rap. 

"In  the  pond  I  think j  sir." 

"The  water  would  have  splashed  if  it  had  gone 
in  the  pond,"  said  the  Professor.  "It  must  be 
over  there  in  the  wet  sand.  You  hit  it  pretty 
hard,  I  thought." 

Search.  The  caddie  looked  as  though  he  didn't 
care  whether  he  found  it  or  not.  He  ought  to  be 
interested.  It  was  his  profession,  not  just  his 
game.  But  nowadays  everybody  had  this  horrid 
disposition  towards  slacking.  A  Tired  generation 
we  are.  The  world  is  too  much  with  us.  Too 
much  to  think  about,  too  much  to  do,  Made- 
leines, army  manoeuvres,  angry  lawyers,  lost 
boys  —  let  alone  such  exhausting  foolery  as  this 
game.  .  . 

"Go^  it,  sir !"  said  the  caddie. 

"Where?" 


THE  SEEKING  OF  BEALBY  169 

"Here,  sir !    Up  in  the  bush,  sir !" 

It  was  resting  in  the  branches  of  a  bush  two 
yards  above  the  sHppery  bank. 

"I  doubt  if  you  can  play  it/'  said  the  Professor, 
"but  it  will  be  interesting  to  try." 

The  Captain  scrutinized  the  position.  "I  can 
play  it,"  he  said. 

"You'll  slip,  I'm  afraid,"  said  the  Professor. 

They  were  both  right.  Captain  Douglas  drove 
his  feet  into  the  steep  slope  of  rusty  sand  below 
the  bush,  held  his  iron  a  little  short  and  wiped 
the  ball  up  and  over  and  as  he  found  afterwards 
out  of  the  rough.  All  eyes  followed  the  ball 
except  his.  The  Professor  made  sounds  of 
friendly  encouragement.  But  the  Captain  was 
going  —  going.  He  was  on  all  fours,  he  scrabbled 
handfuls  of  prickly  gorse,  of  wet  sand.  His 
feet,  his  ankles,  his  calves  slid  into  the  pond. 
How  much  more?  No.  He'd  reached  the 
bottom.  He  proceeded  to  get  out  again  as  well 
as  he  could.  Not  so  easy.  The  bottom  of 
the  pond  sucked  at  him.  .  .  . 

When  at  last  he  rejoined  the  other  three  his 
hands  were  sandy  red,  his  knees  were  sandy  red, 
his  feet  were  of  clay,  but  his  face  was  like  the 
face  of  a  little  child.  Like  the  face  of  a  Httle 
fair  child  after  it  has  been  boiled  red  in  its  bath 
and  then  dusted  over  with  white  powder. 
His  ears  were  the  colour  of  roses,  Lancaster  roses. 
And  his  eyes  too  had  something  of  the  angry 
wonder  of  a  little  child  distressed.  .  .  . 

"I  was  afraid  you'd  slip  into  the  pond,"  said 
the  Professor. 


170  BEALBY 

"I  didn^t,"  said  the  Captain. 

• 

"I  just  got  in  to  see  how  deep  it  was  and  cool 
my  feet  —  I  hate  warm  feet." 

He  lost  that  hole  but  he  felt  a  better  golfer  now, 
his  anger  he  thought  was  warming  him  up  so  that 
he  would  presently  begin  to  make  strokes  by 
instinct,  and  do  remarkable  things  unawares. 
After  all  there  is  something  in  the  phrase  "getting 
one^s  blood  up."  If  only  the  Professor  wouldn^t 
dally  so  with  his  ball  and  let  one's  blood  get  down 
again.  Tap  !  —  the  Professor's  ball  went  soaring. 
Now  for  it.  The  Captain  addressed  himself  to 
his  task,  altered  his  plans  rather  hastily,  smote 
and  topped  the  ball. 

The  least  one  could  expect  was  a  sympathetic 
silence.  But  the  Professor  thought  fit  to  improve 
the  occasion. 

"You'll  never  drive,"  said  the  Professor; 
"you'll  never  drive  with  that  irritable  jerk  in 
the  middle  of  the  stroke.  You  might  just  as 
well  smack  the  ball  without  raising  your  club. 
If  you  think—" 

The  Captain  lost  his  self-control  altogether. 

"Look  here,"  he  said,  "if  you  think  that  / 
care  a  single  rap  about  how  I  hit  the  ball,  if  you 
think  that  I  really  want  to  win  and  do  well  at 
this  beastly,  silly,  elderly,  childish  game  — ." 

He  paused  on  the  verge  of  ungentlemanly 
language. 

"If  a  thing's  worth  doing  at  all,"  said  the 
Professor  after  a  pause  for  reflection,  "it's  worth 
doing  well." 


THE  SEEKING  OF  BEALBY  171 

"Then  it  isn't  worth  doing  at  all.  As  this  hole 
gives  you  the  game  —  if  you  don't  mind  — '' 

The  Captain's  hot  moods  were  so  rapid  that 
already  he  was  acutely  ashamed  of  himself. 

"0  certainly,  if  you  wish  it/'  said  the  Professor. 

With  a  gesture  the  Professor  indicated  the 
altered  situation  to  the  respectful  caddies  and 
the  two  gentlemen  turned  their  faces  towards  the 
hotel. 

For  a  time  they  walked  side  by  side  in  silence, 
the  caddies  following  with  hushed  expressions. 

^'Splendid  weather  for  the  French  manoeuvres/' 
said  the  Captain  presently  in  an  off-hand  tone, 
"that  is  to  say  if  they  are  getting  this  weather." 

"At  present  there  are  a  series  of  high  pressure 
systems  over  the  whole  of  Europe  north  of  the 
Alps/'  said  the  Professor.  "It  is  as  near  set 
fair  as  Europe  can  be." 

"Fine  weather  for  tramps  and  wanderers," 
said  the  Captain  after  a  further  interval. 

"There's  a  drawback  to  everything/'  said  the 
Professor.     "But  it's  very  lovely  weather." 

§9 

They  got  back  to  the  hotel  about  half-past 
eleven  and  the  Captain  went  and  had  an  unpleas- 
ant time  with  one  of  the  tyres  of  his  motor 
bicycle  which  had  got  down  in  the  night.  In 
replacing  the  tyre  he  pinched  the  top  of  one  of 
his  fingers  rather  badly.  Then  he  got  the  ordnance 
map  of  the  district  and  sat  at  a  green  table  in  the 
open  air  in  front  of  the  hotel  windows  and  specu- 


172  BEALBY 

lated  on  the  probable  flight  of  Bealby.  He  had 
been  last  seen  going  south  by  east.  That  way 
lay  the  sea,  and  all  boy  fugitives  go  naturally  for 
the  sea. 

He  tried  to  throw  himself  into  the  fugitive's 
mind  and  work  out  just  exactly  the  course  Bealby 
must  take  to  the  sea. 

For  a  time  he  found  this  quite  an  absorbing 
occupation. 

Bealby  probably  had  no  money  or  very  little 
money.  Therefore  he  would  have  to  beg  or 
steal.  He  wouldn't  go  to  the  workhouse  because 
he  wouldn't  know  about  the  workhouse,  respect- 
able poor  people  never  know  anything  about  the 
workhouse,  and  the  chances  were  he  would  be  both 
too  honest  and  too  timid  to  steal.  He'd  beg.  He'd 
beg  at  front  doors  because  of  dogs  and  things, 
and  he'd  probably  go  along  a  high  road.  He'd  be 
more  likely  to  beg  from  houses  than  from  passers- 
by,  because  a  door  is  at  first  glance  less  formidable 
than  a  pedestrian  and  more  accustomed  to  being 
addressed.  And  he'd  try  isolated  cottages  rather 
than  the  village  street  doors,  an  isolated  wayside 
cottage  is  so  much  more  confidential.  He'd  ask  for 
food — not  money.     All  that  seemed  pretty  sound. 

Now  this  road  on  the  map  —  into  it  he  was 
bound  to  fall  and  along  it  he  would  go  begging. 
No  other?  .  .  .     No. 

In  the  fine  weather  he'd  sleep  out.  And  he'd 
go  —  ten,  twelve,  fourteen  —  thirteen,  thirteen 
miles  a  day. 

So  now,  he  ought  to  be  about  here.  And  to- 
night, —  here. 


THE  SEEKING  OF  BEALBY  173 

To-mon  dw  at  the  same  pace,  —  here. 

But  suppose  he  got  a  Hft !  .  .  . 

HeM  only  get  a  slow  Hft  if  he  got  one  at  all. 
It  wouldn't  make  much  difference  in  the  cal- 
culation. ... 

So  if  to-morrow  one  started  and  went  on  to 
these  cross  roads  marked  Inn,  just  about  twenty-six 
miles  it  must  be  by  the  scale,  and  beat  round  it 
one  ought  to  get  something  in  the  way  of  tidings 
of  Mr.  Bealby.  Was  there  any  reason  why 
Bealby  shouldn't  go  on  south  by  east  and  sea- 
ward? .  .  . 

None. 

And  now  there  remained  nothing  to  do  but  to 
explain  all  this  clearly  to  Madeleine.  And  why 
didn't  she  come  down?  Why  didn't  she  come 
down? 

But  when  one  got  Bealby  what  would  one  do 
with  him? 

Wring  the  truth  out  of  him  —  half  by  threats 
and  half  by  persuasion.  Suppose  after  all  he 
hadn't  any  connexion  with  the  upsetting  of  Lord 
Moggeridge?  He  had.  Suppose  he  hadn't.  He 
had.     He  had.     He  had. 

And  when  one  had  the  truth? 

Whisk  the  boy  right  up  to  London  and  con- 
front the  Lord  Chancellor  with  the  facts.  But 
suppose  he  wouldn't  be  confronted  with  the  facts. 
He  was  a  touchy  old  sinner.  .  .  . 

For  a  time  Captain  Douglas  balked  at  this 
difl&culty .  Then  suddenly  there  came  into  his  head 
the  tall  figure,  the  long  moustaches  of  that  kindly 
popular  figure,  his  adopted  uncle  Lord  Chickney, 


174  BEALBY 

Suppose  he  took  the  boy  straight  to  Uncle  Chick- 
ney,  told  him  the  whole  story.  Ever,  the  Lord 
Chancellor  would  scarcely  refuse  ten  minutes  to 
General  Lord  Chickney.  .  .  . 

The  clearer  the  plans  of  Captain  Dc.uglas  grew 
the  more  anxious  he  became  to  put  t  lem  before 
Madeleine  —  clearly  and  convincingly:.  .  .  . 

Because  first  he  had  to  catch  his  boy.  .  .  . 

Presently,  as  Captain  Douglas  fretted  at  the 
continued  eclipse  of  Madeleine,  his  chumb  went 
into  his  waistcoat  pocket  and  found  a  piece  of 
paper.  He  drew  it  out  and  looked  at  it.  It  was 
a  little  piece  of  stiff  note-paper  cut  into  the  shape 
of  a  curved  V  rather  after  the  fash'on  of  a  soaring 
bird.  It  must  have  been  there  for  months.  He 
looked  at  it.  His  care-wrinkled  brow  relaxed. 
He  glanced  over  his  shoulder  at  the  house  and 
then  held  this  little  scrap  high  over  his  head  and 
let  go.  It  descended  with  a  slanting  flight  curving 
round  to  the  left  and  then  came  about  and  swept 
down  to  the  ground  to  the  right.  .  .  .  Now  why 
did  it  go  like  that?  As  if  it  changed  its  mind. 
He  tried  it  again.  Same  result.  .  .  .  Suppose 
the  curvature  of  the  wings  was  a  little  greater? 
Would  it  make  a  more  acute  or  a  less  acute  angle? 
He  did  not  know.  .  .  .     Try  it. 

He  felt  in  his  pocket  for  a  piece  of  paper,  found 
Lady  Laxton's  letter,  produced  a  stout  pair  of 
nail  scissors  in  a  sheath  from  a  waistcoat  pocket, 
selected  a  good  clear  sheet,  and  set  himself  to 
cut  out  his  improved  V.  .  .  . 

As  he  did  so  his  eyes  were  on  V  number  one, 
on  the  ground.     It  would  be  interesting  to  see  if 


THE  SEEKING  OF  BEALBY  175 

this  thing  turned  about  to  the  left  again.  If  in 
fact  it  would  go  on  zig-zagging.  It  ought,  he  felt, 
to  do  so.  But  to  test  that  one  ought  to  release  it 
from  some  higher  point  so  as  to  give  it  a  longer 
flight.     Stand  on  the  chair?  .  .  . 

Not  in  front  of  the  whole  rotten  hotel.  And 
there  was  a  beastly  looking  man  in  a  green  apron 
coming  out  of  the  house,  —  the  sort  of  man  who 
looks  at  you.  He  might  come  up  and  watch ; 
these  fellows  are  equal  to  anything  of  that  sort. 
Captain  Douglas  replaced  his  scissors  and  scraps 
in  his  pockets,  leaned  back  with  an  affectation 
of  boredom,  got  up,  lit  a  cigarette  —  sort  of 
thing  the  man  in  the  green  apron  would  think  all 
right  —  and  strolled  off  towards  a  clump  of 
beech  trees,  beyond  which  were  bushes  and  a  de- 
pression. There  perhaps  one  might  be  free  from 
observation.  Just  try  these  things  for  a  bit. 
That  point  about  the  angle  was  a  curious  one; 
it  made  one  feel  one's  ignorance  not  to  know 
that.  .  .  . 

§10 

The  ideal  King  has  a  careworn  look,  he  rules, 
he  has  to  do  things,  but  the  ideal  Queen  is  radiant 
happiness,  tall  and  sweetly  dignified,  simply  she 
has  to  be  things.  And  when  at  last  towards 
midday  Queen  Madeleine  dispelled  the  clouds  of 
the  morning  and  came  shining  back  into  the 
world  that  waited  outside  her  door,  she  was  full 
of  thankfulness  for  herself  and  for  the  empire 
that  was  given  her.  She  knew  she  was  a  delicious 
and  wonderful  thing,  she  knew  she  was  well  done, 


176  BEALBY 

her  hands,  the  soft  folds  of  her  dress  as  she  held 
it  up,  the  sweep  of  her  hair  from  her  forehead 
pleased  her,  she  lifted  her  chin  but  not  too  high 
for  the  almost  unenvious  homage  in  the  eyes  of 
the  housemaid  on  the  staircase.  Her  descent 
was  well  timed  for  the  lunch  gathering  of  the 
hotel  guests;  there  was  ^'Ah!  —  here  she  comes 
at  last !''  and  there  was  her  own  particular  court 
out  upon  the  verandah  before  the  entrance, 
Geedge  and  the  Professor  and  Mrs.  Bowles  — 
and  Mrs.  Geedge  coming  across  the  lawn,  —  and 
the  lover  ? 

She  came  on  down  and  out  into  the  sunshine. 
She  betrayed  no  surprise.  The  others  met  her 
with  flattering  greetings  that  she  returned  smil- 
ingly.   But  the  lover  —  ? 

He  was  not  there ! 

It  was  as  if  the  curtain  had  gone  up  on  almost 
empty  stalls. 

He  ought  to  have  been  worked  up  and  waiting 
tremendously.  He  ought  to  have  spent  the 
morning  in  writing  a  poem  to  her  or  in  writing  a 
delightful  poetical  love  letter  she  could  carry 
away  and  read  or  in  wandering  alone  and  thinking 
about  her.  He  ought  to  be  feeling  now  like  the 
end  of  a  vigil.  He  ought  to  be  standing  now,  a 
little  in  the  background  and  with  that  pleasant 
flush  of  his  upon  his  face  and  that  shy,  subdued, 
reluctant  look  that  was  so  infinitely  more  flattering 
than  any  boldness  of  admiration.  And  then  she 
would  go  towards  him,  for  she  was  a  giving  type, 
and  hold  out  both  hands  to  him,  and  he,  as  though 
he  couldn't  help  it,  in  spite  of  all  his  British 


THE  SEEKING  OF  BEALBY  177 

reserve,  would  take  one  and  hesitate  —  which 
made  it  all  the  more  marked  —  and  kiss  it.  .  .  . 

Instead  of  which  he  was  just  not  there.  .  .  . 

No  visible  disappointment  dashed  her  bravery. 
She  knew  that  at  the  slightest  flicker  Judy  and 
Mrs.  Geedge  would  guess  and  that  anyhow  the 
men  would  guess  nothing.  ^'IVe  rested/'  she 
said,  "IVe  rested  delightfully.  What  have  you 
all  been  doing?" 

Judy  told  of  great  conversations,  Mr.  Geedge 
had  been  looking  for  trout  in  the  stream,  Mrs. 
Geedge  with  a  thin  little  smile  said  she  had  been 
making  a  few  notes  and  —  she  added  the  word 
with  deliberation  —  "observations,"  and  Profes- 
sor Bowles  said  he  had  had  a  round  of  golf 
with  the  Captain.  "And  he  lost?"  asked  Made- 
leine. 

"He's  careless  in  his  drive  and  impatient  at 
the  greens,"  said  the  Professor  modestly. 

"And  then?" 

"He  vanished,"  said  the  Professor,  recognizing 
the  true  orientation  of  her  interest. 

There  was  a  little  pause  and  Mrs.  Geedge  said, 
"You  know —  "  and  stopped  short. 

Interrogative  looks  focussed  upon  her. 

"It's  so  odd,"  she  said. 

Curiosity  increased. 

"I  suppose  one  ought  not  to  say,"  said  Mrs. 
Geedge,  "and  yet  —  why  shouldn't  one?" 

"Exactly,"  said  Professor  Bowles,  and  every  one 
drew  a  little  nearer  to  Mrs.  Geedge. 

"One  can't  help  being  amused,"  she  said. 
"It  was  so  —  extraordinary." 

N 


u 


178  BEALBY 

"Is  it  something  about  the  Captain?"  asked 
Madeleine. 

Yes.     You  see,  —  he  didn't  see  me." 
Is  he  —  is  he  writing  poetry?"  Madeleine  was 
much  entertained  and  relieved  at  the   thought. 
That  would  account  for  everything.     The  poor 
dear !    He  hadn't  been  able  to  find  some  rhyme  ! 

But  one  gathered  from  the  mysterious  airs  of 
Mrs.  Geedge  that  he  was  not  writing  poetry. 
''You  see/'  she  said,  ^'I  was  lying  out  there 
among  the  bushes,  just  jotting  down  a  few  little 
things,  —  and  he  came  by.  And  he  went  down 
into  the  hollow  out  of  sight.  .  .  .  And  what  do 
you  think  he  is  doing?  You'd  never  guess? 
He's  been  at  it  for  twenty  minutes." 

They  didn't  guess. 

"He's  playing  with  little  bits  of  paper  —  Oh! 
like  a  kitten  plays  with  dead  leaves.  He  throws 
them  up  —  and  they  flutter  to  the  ground  —  and 
then  he  pounces  on  them." 

"But  — "  said  Madeleine.  And  then  very 
brightly,  "let's  go  and  see!" 

She  was  amazed.  She  couldn't  understand. 
She  hid  it  under  a  light  playfulness,  that  threatened 
to  become  distraught.  Even  when  presently, 
after  a  very  careful  stalking  of  the  dell  under  the 
guidance  of  Mrs.  Geedge,  with  the  others  in 
support,  she  came  in  sight  of  him,  she  still  found 
him  incredible.  There  was  her  lover,  her  de- 
voted lover,  standing  on  the  top  bar  of  a  fence, 
his  legs  wide  apart  and  his  body  balanced  with 
difficulty,  and  in  his  fingers  poised  high  was  a 
little  scrap  of  paper.    This  was  the  man  who 


THE  SEEKING  OF  BEALBY  179 

should  have  been  waiting  in  the  hall  with  feverish 
anxiety.  His  fingers  released  the  little  model 
and  down  it  went  drifting.  .  .  . 

He  seemed  to  be  thinking  of  nothing  else  in  the 
world.     She  might  never  have  been  born !  .  .  . 

Some  noise,  some  rustle,  caught  his  ear.  He 
turned  his  head  quickly,  guiltily,  and  saw  her  and 
her  companions. 

And  then  he  crowned  her  astonishment.  No 
lovelight  leapt  to  his  eyes ;  he  uttered  no  cry  of 
j  oy .  Instead  he  clutched  wildly  at  the  air,  shouted, 
"Oh  damn!^'  and  came  down  with  a  complicated 
inelegance  on  all  fours  upon  the  ground. 

He  was  angry  with  her  —  angry ;  she  could 
see  that  he  was  extremely  angry. 

§  11 

So  it  was  that  the  incompatibilities  of  man  and 
woman  arose  again  in  the  just  recovering  love 
dream  of  Madeleine  Philips.  But  now  the  dis- 
cord was  far  more  evident  than  it  had  been  at 
the  first  breach. 

Suddenly  her  dear  lover,  her  flatterer,  her  wor- 
shipper, had  become  a  strange  averted  man.  He 
scrabbled  up  two  of  his  paper  scraps  before  he 
came  towards  her,  still  with  no  lovelight  in  his 
eyes.  He  kissed  her  hand  as  if  it  was  a  matter  of 
course  and  said  almost  immediately:  "IVe  been 
hoping  for  you  all  the  endless  morning.  IVe  had 
to  amuse  myself  as  best  I  can."  His  tone  was 
resentful.  He  spoke  as  if  he  had  a  claim  upon 
her  —  upon  her  attentions.  As  if  it  wasn't  en- 
tirely upon  his  side  that  obligations  lay. 


180  BEALBY 

She  resolved  that  shouldn't  deter  her  from 
being  charming. 

And  all  through  the  lunch  she  was  as  charming 
as  she  could  be,  and  under  such  treatment  that 
rebellious  ruffled  quality  vanished  from  his  man- 
ner, vanished  so  completely  that  she  could  wonder 
if  it  had  really  been  evident  at  any  time.  The 
alert  servitor  returned. 

She  was  only  too  pleased  to  forget  the  disap- 
pointment of  her  descent  and  forgive  him,  and  it 
was  with  a  puzzled  incredulity  that  she  presently 
saw  his  "difficult"  expression  returning.  It  was 
an  odd  little  knitting  of  the  brows,  a  faint  absent- 
mindedness,  a  filming  of  the  brightness  of  his 
worship.  He  was  Just  perceptibly  indifferent  to 
the  charmed  and  charming  things  he  was  saying. 

It  seemed  best  to  her  to  open  the  question 
herself.  "Is  there  something  on  your  mind, 
Dot?" 

"Dot"  was  his  old  school  nickname. 

"Well,  no  —  not  exactly  on  my  mind.  But  — . 
It's  a  bother  of  course.  There's  that  confounded 
boy.  .  .  ." 

"Were  you  trying  some  sort  of  divination 
about  him?     With  those  pieces  of  paper?" 

"No.  That  was  different.  That  was  —  just 
something  else.  But  you  see  that  boy  — .  Prob- 
ably clear  up  the  whole  of  the  Moggeridge 
bother  —  and  you  know  it  is  a  bother.  Might 
turn  out  beastly  awkward.  ..." 

It  was  extraordinarily  difficult  to  express. 
He  wanted  so  much  to  stay  with  her  and  he 
wanted  so  much  to  go. 


THE  SEEKING  OF  BEALBY  181 

But  all  reason,  all  that  was  expressible,  all 
that  found  vent  in  words  and  definite  suggestions, 
was  on  the  side  of  an  immediate  pursuit  of  Bealby. 
So  that  it  seemed  to  her  he  wanted  and  intended 
to  go  much  more  definitely  than  he  actually  did. 

That  divergence  of  purpose  flawed  a  beautiful 
afternoon,  cast  chill  shadows  of  silence  over  their 
talk,  arrested  endearments.  She  was  irritated. 
About  six  o^clock  she  urged  him  to  go  ;  she  did  not 
mind,  anyhow  she  had  things  to  see  to,  letters  to 
write,  and  she  left  him  with  an  effect  of  leaving 
him  for  ever.  He  went  and  overhauled  his  motor 
bicycle  thoroughly  and  then  an  aching  dread  of 
separation  from  her  arrested  him. 

Dinner,  the  late  June  sunset  and  the  moon 
seemed  to  bring  them  together  again.  Almost 
harmoniously  he  was  able  to  suggest  that  he 
should  get  up  very  early  the  next  morning,  pursue 
and  capture  Bealby  and  return  for  lunch. 

^^You'd  get  up  at  dawn!''  she  cried.  "But 
how  perfectly  Splendid  the  midsummer  dawn 
must  be.'' 

Then  she  had  an  inspiration.  "  Dot ! "  she 
cried,  "I  will  get  up  at  dawn  also  and  come  with 
you.  .  .  .  Yes,  but  as  you  say  he  cannot  be 
more  than  thirteen  miles  away  we'd  catch  him 
warm  in  his  little  bed  somewhere.  And  the 
freshness!     The  dewy  freshness!" 

And  she  laughed  her  beautiful  laugh  and  said  it 
would  be  "Such  Fun!^^  entering  as  she  supposed 
into  his  secret  desires  and  making  the  most  perfect 
of  reconciliations.  They  were  to  have  tea  first, 
which  she  would  prepare  with  the  caravan  lamp 


182  BEALBY 

and  kettle.  Mrs.  Geedge  would  hand  it  over 
to  her. 

She  broke  into  song.  "A  Hunting  we  will 
go-ooh/' she  sang.     ^^  A  Hunting  we  will  go.  .  .  .'' 

But  she  could  not  conquer  the  churlish  under- 
side of  the  Captain's  nature  even  by  such  efforts. 
She  threw  a  glamour  of  vigour  and  fun  over  the 
adventure,  but  some  cold  streak  in  his  composi- 
tion was  insisting  all  the  time  that  as  a  boy  hunt 
the  attempt  failed.  Various  little  delays  in  her 
preparations  prevented  a  start  before  half-past 
seven,  he  let  that  weigh  with  him,  and  when 
sometimes  she  clapped  her  hands  and  ran  —  and 
she  ran  Uke  a  deer,  and  sometimes  she  sang,  he 
said  something  about  going  at  an  even  pace. 

At  a  quarter  past  one  Mrs.  Geedge  observed 
them  returning.  They  were  walking  abreast  and 
about  six  feet  apart,  they  bore  themselves  grimly, 
after  the  manner  of  those  who  have  delivered 
ultimata,  and  they  conversed  no  more.  .  .  . 

In  the  afternoon  Madeleine  kept  her  own 
room,  exhausted,  and  Captain  Douglas  sought 
opportunities  of  speaking  to  her  in  vain.  His 
face  expressed  distress  and  perplexity,  with 
momentary  lapses  into  wrathful  resolution,  and  he 
evaded  Judy  and  her  leading  questions  and  talked 
about  the  weather  with  Geedge.  He  declined  a 
proposal  of  the  Professor's  to  go  round  the  links, 
with  especial  reference  to  his  neglected  putting. 
"You  ought  to,  you  know,"  said  the  Professor. 

About  half-past  three,  and  without  any  publi- 
cation of  his  intention,  Captain  Douglas  departed 
upon  his  motor  bicycle.  .  .  . 


THE  SEEKING  OF  BEALBY  183 

Madeleine  did  not  reappear  until  dinner-time, 
and  then  she  was  clad  in  lace  and  gaiety  that 
impressed  the  naturally  very  good  observation 
of  Mrs.  Geedge  as  unreal. 

§12 

The  Captain,  a  confusion  of  motives  that  was 
as  it  were  a  mind  returning  to  chaos,  started. 
He  had  seen  tears  in  her  eyes.  Just  for  one 
instant,  but  certainly  they  were  tears.  Tears  of 
vexation.  Or  sorrow?  (Which  is  the  worse 
thing  for  a  lover  to  arouse,  grief  or  resentment?) 
But  this  boy  must  be  caught,  because  if  he  was 
not  caught  a  perpetually  developing  story  of 
imbecile  practical  joking  upon  eminent  and 
influential  persons  would  eat  like  a  cancer  into 
the  Captain's  career.  And  if  his  career  was 
spoilt  what  sort  of  thing  would  he  be  as  a  lover? 
Not  to  mention  that  he  might  never  get  a  chance 
then  to  try  flying  for  military  purposes.  .  .  . 
So  anyhow,  anyhow,  this  boy  must  be  caught. 
But  quickly,  for  women's  hearts  are  tender,  they 
will  not  stand  exposure  to  hardship.  There  is 
a  kind  of  unreasonableness  natural  to  goddesses. 
Unhappily  this  was  an  expedition  needing  wari- 
ness, deliberation,  and  one  brought  to  it  a  feverish 
hurry  to  get  back.  There  must  be  self-control. 
There  must  be  patience.  Such  occasions  try  the 
soldierly  quality  of  a  man.  .  .  . 

It  added  nothing  to  the  Captain's  self-control 
that  after  he  had  travelled  ten  miles  he  found  he 
had  forgotten  his  quite  indispensable  map  and 


184  BEALBY 

had  to  return  for  it.  Then  he  was  seized  again 
with  doubts  about  his  inductions  and  went  over 
them  again,  sitting  by  the  roadside.  (There 
must  be  patience.)  .  .  .  He  went  on  at  a  pace 
of  thirty-five  miles  an  hour  to  the  inn  he  had 
marked  upon  his  map  as  Bealby^s  limit  for  the 
second  evening.  It  was  a  beastly  little  inn,  it 
stewed  tea  for  the  Captain  atrociously  and  it 
knew  nothing  of  Bealby.  In  the  adjacent  cot- 
tages also  they  had  never  heard  of  Bealby.  Cap- 
tain Douglas  revised  his  deductions  for  the  third 
time  and  came  to  the  conclusion  that  he  had  not 
made  a  proper  allowance  for  Wednesday  after- 
noon. Then  there  was  all  Thursday,  and  the 
longer,  lengthening  part  of  Friday.  He  might 
have  done  thirty  miles  or  more  already.  And 
he  might  have  crossed  this  corner  —  inconspicu- 
ously. 

Suppose  he  hadn't  after  all  come  along  this 
road ! 

He  had  a  momentary  vision  of  Madeleine 
with  eyes  brightly  tearful.  "You  left  me  for  a 
Wild  Goose  Chase,''  he  fancied  her  saying.  .  .  . 

One  must  stick  to  one's  job.  A  soldier  more 
particularly  must  stick  to  his  job.  Consider 
Balaclava.  .  .  . 

He  decided  to  go  on  along  this  road  and  try 
the  incidental  cottages  that  his  reasoning  led  him 
to  suppose  were  the  most  likely  places  at  which 
Bealby  would  ask  for  food.  It  was  a  business 
demanding  patience  and  politeness. 

So  a  number  of  cottagers,  for  the  greater  part 
they  were  elderly  women  past  the  fiercer  rush 


THE  SEEKING  OF  BEALBY  185 

and  hurry  of  life,  grandmothers  and  ancient 
dames  or  wives  at  leisure  with  their  children 
away  at  the  Council  schools,  had  a  caller  that 
afternoon.  Cottages  are  such  lonely  places  in 
the  daytime  that  even  district  visitors  and  can- 
vassers are  godsends  and  only  tramps  ill  received. 
Captain  Douglas  ranked  high  in  the  scale  of 
visitors.  There  was  something  about  him,  his 
fairness,  a  certain  handsomeness,  his  quick  colour, 
his  active  speech,  which  interested  women  at  all 
times,  and  now  an  indefinable  flow  of  romantic 
excitement  conveyed  itself  to  his  interlocutors. 
He  encountered  the  utmost  civility  everywhere ; 
doors  at  first  tentatively  ajar  opened  wider  at 
the  sight  of  him  and  there  was  a  kindly  disposition 
to  enter  into  his  troubles  lengthily  and  deliber- 
ately. People  listened  attentively  to  his  demands, 
and  before  they  testified  to  Bealby's  sustained 
absence  from  their  perception  they  would  for  the 
most  part  ask  numerous  questions  in  return. 
They  wanted  to  hear  the  Captain's  story,  the 
reason  for  his  research,  the  relationship  between 
himself  and  the  boy,  they  wanted  to  feel  some- 
thing of  the  sentiment  of  the  thing.  After  that 
was  the  season  for  negative  facts.  Perhaps  when 
everything  was  stated  they  might  be  able  to 
conjure  up  what  he  wanted.  He  was  asked  in 
to  have  tea  twice,  for  he  looked  not  only  pink  and 
dusty,  but  dry,  and  one  old  lady  said  that  years 
ago  she  had  lost  just  such  a  boy  as  Bealby  seemed 
to  be  —  "Ah!  not  in  the  way  you  have  lost 
him"  —  and  she  wept,  poor  old  dear!  and  was 
only  comforted  after  she  had  told  the   Captain 


186  BEALBY 

three  touching  but  extremely  lengthy  and  de- 
tailed anecdotes  of  Bealby^s  vanished  prototype. 

(Fellow  cannot  rush  away,  you  know ;  still  all 
this  sort  of  thing,  accumulating,  means  a  con- 
founded lot  of  delay.) 

And  then  there  was  a  deaf  old  man.  ...  A 
very,  very  tiresome  deaf  old  man  who  said  at 
first  he  had  seen  Bealby.  .  .  . 

After  all  the  old  fellow  was  deaf.  .  .  . 

The  sunset  found  the  Captain  on  a  breezy 
common  forty  miles  away  from  the  Redlake 
Royal  Hotel  and  by  this  time  he  knew  that  fugi- 
tive boys  cannot  be  trusted  to  follow  the  lines 
even  of  the  soundest  inductions.  This  business 
meant  a  search. 

Should  he  pelt  back  to  Redlake  and  start  again 
more  thoroughly  on  the  morrow? 

A  moment  of  temptation. 

If  he  did  he  knew  she  wouldn't  let  him  go. 

No! 

NO! 

He  must  make  a  sweeping  movement  through 
the  country  to  the  left,  trying  up  and  down  the 
roads  that,  roughly  speaking,  radiated  from 
Redlake  between  the  twenty-fifth  and  the  thirty- 
fifth  milestone.  .  .  . 

It  was  night  and  high  moonlight  when  at  last 
the  Captain  reached  Crayminster,  that  little  old 
town  decayed  to  a  village,  in  the  Crays  valley. 
He  was  hungry,  dispirited,  quite  unsuccessful, 
and  here  he  resolved  to  eat  and  rest  for  the  night. 

He  would  have  a  meal,  for  by  this  time  he  was 
ravenous,  and  then  go  and  talk  in  the  bar  or  the 
tap  about  Bealby. 


THE  SEEKING  OF  BEALBY  187 

Until  he  had  eaten  he  felt  he  could  not  endure 
the  sound  of  his  own  voice  repeating  what  had 
already  become  a  tiresome  stereotyped  formula ; 
''You  haven't  I  suppose  seen  or  heard  anything 
during  the  last  two  days  of  a  small  boy  —  little 
chap  of  about  thirteen  —  wandering  about  ?  He's 
a  sturdy  resolute  little  fellow  with  a  high  colour, 
short  wiry  hair,  rather  dark.  .  .  .'' 

The  White  Hart  at  Crayminster,  after  some 
negotiations,  produced  mutton  cutlets  and  Aus- 
tralian hock.  As  he  sat  at  his  meal  in  the  small 
ambiguous  respectable  dining-room  of  the  inn  — 
adorned  with  framed  and  glazed  beer  advertise- 
ments, crinkled  paper  fringes  and  insincere  sport- 
ing prints  —  he  became  aware  of  a  murmurous 
confabulation  going  on  in  the  bar  parlour.  It 
must  certainly  he  felt  be  the  bar  parlour.  .  .  . 

He  could  not  hear  distinctly,  and  yet  it  seemed 
to  him  that  the  conversational  style  of  Cray- 
minster was  abnormally  rich  in  expletive.  And 
the  tone  was  odd.  It  had  a  steadfast  quality  of 
commination. 

He  brushed  off  a  crumb  from  his  jacket,  lit  a 
cigarette  and  stepped  across  the  passage  to  put 
his  hopeless  questions. 

The  talk  ceased  abruptly  at  his  appearance. 

It  was  one  of  those  deep-toned  bar  parlours 
that  are  so  infinitely  more  pleasant  to  the  eye 
than  the  tawdry  decorations  of  the  genteel  accom- 
modation. It  was  brown  with  a  trimming  of 
green  paper  hops  and  it  had  a  mirror  and  glass 
shelves  sustaining  bottles  and  tankards.  Six  or 
seven  individuals  were  sitting  about  the   room. 


188  BEALBY 

They  had  a  numerous  effect.  There  was  a  man 
in  very  light  floury  tweeds,  with  a  floury  bloom 
on  his  face  and  hair  and  an  anxious  depressed 
expression.  He  was  clearly  a  baker.  He  sat 
forward  as  though  he  nursed  something  precious 
under  the  table.  Next  him  was  a  respectable- 
looking,  regular-featured  fair  man  with  a  large 
head,  and  a  ruddy-faced  butcher-like  individual 
smoked  a  clay  pipe  by  the  side  of  the  fireplace. 
A  further  individual  with  an  alert  intrusive  look 
might  have  been  a  grocer's  assistant  associating 
above  himself. 

"Evening/'  said  the  Captain. 

"Evening/'  said  the  man  with  the  large'  hand 
guardedly. 

The  Captain  came  to  the  hearthrug  with  an 
affectation  of  ease. 

"I  suppose/'  he  began,  "that  you  haven't  any 
of  you  seen  anything  of  a  small  boy,  wandering 
about.  He's  a  little  chap  about  thirteen.  Sturdy, 
resolute-looking  little  fellow  with  a  high  colour, 
short  wiry  hair,  rather  dark.  ..." 

He  stopped  short,  arrested  by  the  excited 
movements  of  the  butcher's  pipe  and  by  the 
changed  expressions  of  the  rest  of  the  company. 

"We  —  we  seen  'im,"  the  man  with  the  big' 
head  managed  to  say  at  last. 

"We  seen  'im  all  right,"  said  a  voice  out  of  the 
darkness  beyond  the  range  of  the  lamp. 

The  baker  with  the  melancholy  expression 
interjected,  "I  don't  care  if  I  don't  ever  see  'im 
again." 

Ah!"   said  the  Captain,   astonished  to  find 


(( 


THE  SEEKING  OF  BEALBY  189 

himself  suddenly  beyond  hoping  on  a  hot  fresh 
scent.  "Now  all  that's  very  interesting.  Where 
did  you  see  him?" 

"Thunderin'  vicious  little  varmint/'  said  the 
butcher.     "Owdacious." 

"Mr.  Benshaw/'  said  the  voice  from  the  shad- 
ows, "  'E's  arter  'im  now  with  a  shot  gun  loaded 
up  wi'  oats.  'E'll  pepper  'im  if  'e  gets  'im,  Bill 
will,  you  bet  your  'at.  And  serve  'im  jolly  well 
right  tew.^^ 

"I  doubt/'  said  the  baker,  "I  doubt  if  I'll  ever 
get  my  stummik  —  not  thoroughly  proper  again. 
It's  a  Blow  I've  'ad.  'E  give  me  a  Blow.  Oh ! 
Mr.  'Orrocks,  could  I  trouble  you  for  another 
thimbleful  of  brandy?  Just  a  thimbleful  neat. 
It  eases  the  ache.  .  .  ." 


CHAPTER  VI 
Bealby  and  the  Tramp 

§1 

Bealby  was  loth  to  leave  the  caravan  party 
even  when  by  his  own  gross  negligence  it  had 
ceased  to  be  a  caravan  party.  He  made  off 
regretfully  along  the  crest  of  the  hills  through 
bushes  of  yew  and  box  until  the  clamour  of  the 
disaster  was  no  longer  in  his  ears.  Then  he 
halted  for  a  time  and  stood  sorrowing  and  listen- 
ing and  then  turned  up  by  a  fence  along  the 
border  of  a  plantation  and  so  came  into  a  little 
overhung  road. 

His  ideas  of  his  immediate  future  were  vague 
in  the  extreme.  He  was  a  receptive  expectation. 
Since  his  departure  from  the  gardener's  cottage 
circumstances  had  handed  him  on.  They  had 
been  interesting  but  unstable  circumstances.  He 
supposed  they  would  still  hand  him  on.  So  far 
as  he  had  any  definite  view  about  his  intentions 
it  was  that  he  was  running  away  to  sea.  And 
that  he  was  getting  hungry. 

It  was  also,  he  presently  discovered,  getting 
dark  very  gently  and  steadily.  And  the  over- 
hung road  after  some  tortuosities  expired  sud- 
denly upon  the  bosom  of  a  great  grey  empty 
common  with  distant  mysterious  hedges. 

190 


BEALBY  AND  THE  TRAMP  191 

It  seemed  high  time  to  Bealby  that  something 
happened  of  a  comforting  nature. 

Always  hitherto  something  or  someone  had  come 
to  his  help  when  the  world  grew  dark  and  cold, 
and  given  him  supper  and  put  him  or  sent  him  to 
bed.  Even  when  he  had  passed  a  night  in  the 
interstices  of  Shonts  he  had  known  there  was  a 
bed  at  quite  a  little  distance  under  the  stairs. 
If  only  that  loud  Voice  hadn't  shouted  curses 
whenever  he  moved  he  would  have  gone  to  it. 
But  as  he  went  across  this  common  in  the  gloam- 
ing it  became  apparent  that  this  amiable  routine 
was  to  be  broken.  For  the  first  time  he  realized 
the  world  could  be  a  homeless  world. 

And  it  had  become  very  still. 

Disagreeably  still,  and  full  of  ambiguous 
shadows. 

That  common  was  not  only  an  unsheltered 
place,  he  felt,  but  an  unfriendly  place,  and  he 
hurried  to  a  gate  at  the  further  end.  He  kept 
glancing  to  the  right  and  to  the  left.  It  would 
be  pleasanter  when  he  had  got  through  that  gate 
and  shut  it  after  him. 
.  In  England  there  are  no  grey  wolves. 

Yet  at  times  one  thinks  of  wolves,  grey  wolves, 
the  colour  of  twilight  and  running  noiselessly, 
almost  noiselessly,  at  the  side  of  their  prey  for 
quite  a  long  time  before  they  close  in  on  it. 

In  England,  I  say,  there  are  no  grey  wolves. 

Wolves  were  extinguished  in  the  reign  of 
Edward  the  Third ;  it  was  in  the  histories,  and 
since  then  no  free  wolf  has  trod  the  soil  of  England  ; 
only  menagerie  captives. 


192  BEALBY 

Of  course  there  may  be  escaped  wolves  I 
Now  the  gate !  —  sharp  through  it  and  slam 
it  behind  you,  and  a  Httle  brisk  run  and  so  into 
this  plantation  that  slopes  down  hill.  This  is  a 
sort  of  path ;  vague,  but  it  must  be  a  path.  Let 
us  hope  it  is  a  path. 

What  was  that  among  the  trees? 

It  stopped,  surely  it  stopped,  as  Bealby  stopped. 
Pump,  pump  — .  Of  course !  that  was  one's 
heart. 

Nothing  there !  Just  fancy.  Wolves  live  in 
the  open ;  they  do  not  come  into  woods  like  this. 
And  besides,  there  are  no  wolves.  And  if  one 
shouts  —  even  if  it  is  but  a  phantom  voice  one 
produces,  they  go  away.  They  are  cowardly 
things  —  really.     Such  as  there  aren't. 

And  there  is  the  power  of  the  human  eye. 

Which  is  why  they  stalk  you  and  watch  you 
and  evade  you  when  you  look  and  creep  and 
creep  and  creep  behind  you ! 

Turn  sharply. 

Nothing. 

How  this  stuff  rustled  under  the  feet !  In 
woods  at  twilight,  with  innumerable  things  dart- 
ing from  trees  and  eyes  watching  you  everywhere, 
it  would  be  pleasanter  if  one  could  walk  without 
making  quite  such  a  row.  Presently,  surely, 
Bealby  told  himself,  he  would  come  out  on  a 
high  road  and  meet  other  people  and  say  "good- 
night" as  they  passed.  Jolly  other  people  they 
would  be,  answering,  "Good-night.''  He  was 
now  going  at  a  moistening  trot.  It  was  getting 
darker  and  he  stumbled  against  things. 


BEALBY  AND  THE  TRAMP  193 

When  you  tumble  down  wolves  leap.  Not  of 
course  that  there  are  any  wolves. 

It  was  stupid  to  keep  thinking  of  wolves  in 
this  way.  Think  of  something  else.  Think  of 
things  beginning  with  a  B.  Beautiful  things, 
boys,  beads,  butterflies,  bears.  The  mind  stuck 
at  bears.  Are  there  such  things  as  long  grey  hears? 
Ugh  1    Almost  endless,  noiseless  bears  ?  .  .  . 

It  grew  darker  until  at  last  the  trees  were 
black.  The  night  was  swallowing  up  the  flying 
Bealby  and  he  had  a  preposterous  persuasion 
that  it  had  teeth  and  would  begin  at  the  back  of 
his  legs.  .  .  . 

§2 

"Hi!"  cried  Bealby  weakly,  hailing  the  glow 
of  the  fire  out  of  the  darkness  of  the  woods  above. 

The  man  by  the  fire  peered  at  the  sound ;  he 
had  been  listening  to  the  stumbling  footsteps 
for  some  time,  and  he  answered  nothing. 

In  another  minute  Bealby  had  struggled  through 
the  hedge  into  the  visible  world  and  stood  regard- 
ing the  man  by  the  fire.  The  phantom  wolves 
had  fled  beyond  Sirius.  But  Bealby's  face  was 
pale  still  from  the  terrors  of  the  pursuit  and 
altogether  he  looked  a  smallish  sort  of  small 
boy. 

"Lost?"  said  the  man  by  the  fire. 

"Couldn't  find  my  way,"  said  Bealby. 

"Anyone  with  you?" 

"No." 

The  man  reflected.     "  Tired  ?  " 

"Bit." 


194  BEALBY 

"  Come  and  sit  down  by  the  fire  and  rest  your- 
self. 

"I  won't  'nrt  you/'  he  added  as  Bealby  hesi- 
tated. 

So  far  in  his  Hmited  experience  Bealby  had 
never  seen  a  human  countenance  lit  from  behind 
by  a  flickering  red  flame.  The  effect  he  found 
remarkable  rather  than  pleasing.  It  gave  this 
stranger  the  most  active  and  unstable  counte- 
nance Bealby  had  ever  seen.  The  nose  seemed  to 
be  in  active  oscillation  between  pug  and  Roman, 
the  eyes  jumped  out  of  black  caves  and  then 
went  back  into  them,  the  more  permanent  fea- 
tures appeared  to  be  a  vast  triangle  of  neck  and 
chin.  The  tramp  would  have  impressed  Bealby 
as  altogether  inhuman  if  it  had  not  been  for  the 
smell  of  cooking  he  diffused.  There  were  onions 
in  it  and  turnips  and  pepper  —  mouth-watering 
constituents,  testimonials  to  virtue.  He  was 
making  a  stew  in  an  old  can  that  he  had  slung 
on  a  cross  stick  over  a  brisk  fire  of  twigs  that  he 
was  constantly  replenishing. 

^^I  won't  'urt  you,  darn  you,"  he  repeated. 
"Come  and  sit  down  on  these  leaves  here  for  a 
bit  and  tell  me  all  abart  it." 

Bealby  did  as  he  was  desired.  "I  got  lost," 
he  said,  feeling  too  exhausted  to  tell  a  good  story. 

The  tramp,  examined  more  closely,  became 
less  pyrotechnic.  He  had  a  large  loose  mouth,  a 
confused  massive  nose,  much  long  fair  hair,  a 
broad  chin  with  a  promising  beard  and  spots  —  a 
lot  of  spots.  His  eyes  looked  out  of  deep  sockets 
and  they  were  sharp  little  eyes.     He  was  a  lean 


BEALBY  AND  THE  TRAMP  196 

man.  His  hands  were  large  and  long  and  they 
kept  on  with  the  feeding  of  the  fire  as  he  sat  and 
talked  to  Bealby.  Once  or  twice  he  leant  forward 
and  smelt  the  pot  judiciously;  but  all  the  time 
the  little  eyes  watched  Bealby  very  closely. 

"Lose  yer  collar?"  said  the  tramp. 

Bealby  felt  for  his  collar.  "I  took  it  orf/'  he 
said. 

"Come  far?" 

"Over  there,"  said  Bealby. 

"Where?" 

"Over  there." 

"What  place?" 

"Don't  know  the  name  of  it." 

"Then  it  ain't  your  'ome?" 

"No." 

"YouVe  run  away/'  said  the  man. 

"Pr'aps  I  'ave/'  said  Bealby. 

"Pr'aps  you  'ave !  Why  pr'aps?  You  ^ave! 
What's  the  good  of  telling  lies  abart  it  ?  When'd 
you  start?" 

"Monday,"  said  Bealby. 

The  tramp  reflected.  "Had  abart  enough  of 
it?" 

"Dunno,"  said  Bealby  truthfully. 

"Like  some  soup?" 

"Yes." 

"'Owmuch?" 

"I  could  do  with  a  lot,"  said  Bealby. 

"Ah  yah!  I  didn't  mean  that.  I  meant, 
'ow  much  for  some?  'Ow  much  will  you  pay  for 
a  nice,  nice  'arf  can  of  soup?  I  ain't  a  darn 
charity.     See?" 


196  BEALBY 

"Tuppence,"  said  Bealby. 

The  tramp  shook  his  head  slowly  from  side  to 
side  and  took  out  the  battered  iron  spoon  he  was 
using  to  stir  the  stuff  and  tasted  the  soup  lus- 
ciously. It  was  —  jolly  good  soup  and  there 
were  potatoes  in  it. 

"Thrippence,"  said  Bealby. 

" 'Ow  much  you  got?"   asked  the  tramp. 

Bealby  hesitated  perceptibly.  "Sixpence/'  he 
said  weakly. 

"It's  sixpence/'  said  the  tramp.     "Pay  up." 

" 'Ow  big  a  can?"  asked  Bealby. 

The  tramp  felt  about  in  the  darkness  behind 
him  and  produced  an  empty  can  with  a  jagged 
mouth  that  had  once  contained,  the  label  wit- 
nessed—  I  quote,  I  do  not  justify  —  ^Deep  Sea 
Salmon,'  "That,"  he  said,  "and  this  chunk  of 
bread.  .  .  .     Right  enough?" 

"You  will  do  it?"  said  Bealby. 

"Do  I  look  a  swindle?"  cried  the  tramp,  and 
suddenly  a  lump  of  the  abundant  hair  fell  over 
one  eye  in  a  singularly  threatening  manner. 
Bealby  handed  over  the  sixpence  without  further 
discussion.  "I'll  treat  you  fairly,  you  see,"  said 
the  tramp,  after  he  had  spat  on  and  pocketed  the 
sixpence,  and  he  did  as  much.  He  decided  that 
the  soup  was  ready  to  be  served  and  he  served  it 
with  care.  Bealby  began  at  once.  "There's  a 
nextry  onion,"  said  the  tramp,  throwing  one  over. 
"It  didn't  cost  me  much  and  I  gives  it  you  for 
nothin'.     That's  all  right,  eh?    Here's  'ealth!" 

Bealby  consumed  his  soup  and  bread  meekly 
with  one  eye  upon  his  host.     He  would,  he  decided, 


BEALBY  AND  THE  TRAMP  197 

eat  all  he  could  and  then  sit  a  little  while,  and  then 
get  this  tramp  to  tell  him  the  way  to  —  anywhere 
else.  And  the  tramp  wiped  soup  out  of  his  can 
with  gobbets  of  bread  very  earnestly  and  medi- 
tated sagely  on  Bealby. 

"You  better  pal  in  with  me,  matey,  for  a  bit,'' 
he  said  at  last.  "You  can't  go  nowhere  else  — 
not  to-night." 

"Couldn't  I  walk  perhaps  to  a  town  or  sump- 
thing?" 

"These  woods  ain't  safe." 

" 'Ow  d'you  mean?" 

"Ever  'eard  tell  of  a  gurrillia?  —  sort  of  big 
black  monkey  thing." 

"Yes,"  said  Bealby  faintly. 

"  There's  been  one  loose  abart  'ere  —  oh  week  or 
more.  Fact.  And  if  you  wasn't  a  grown  up 
man  quite  and  going  along  in  the  dark,  well  —  'e 
might  say  something  to  you.  ...  Of  course  'e 
wouldn't  do  nothing  where  there  was  a  fire  or  a 
man  —  but  a  little  chap  like  you.  I  wouldn't 
like  to  let  you  do  it,  'strewth  I  wouldn't.  It's 
risky.  Course  I  don't  want  to  keep  you.  There 
it  is.  You  go  if  you  like.  But  I'd  rather  you 
didn't.     'Onest." 

"Where'd  he  come  from?"   asked  Bealby. 

"M'nagery,"  said  the  tramp. 

"  'E  very  near  bit  through  the  fist  of  a  chap 
that  tried  to  stop  'im,"  said  the  tramp. 

Bealby  after  weighing  tramp  and  gorilla  very 
carefully  in  his  mind  decided  he  wouldn't  and 
drew  closer  to  the  fire  —  but  not  too  close  —  and 
the  conversation  deepened. 


198  BEALBY 


It  was  a  long  and  rambling  conversation  and 
the  tramp  displayed  himself  at  times  as  quite  an 
amiable  person.  It  was  a  discourse  varied  by 
interrogations,  and  as  a  thread  of  departure  and 
return  it  dealt  with  the  life  of  the  road  and  with 
life  at  large  and  —  life,  and  with  matters  of  ^  must ' 
and  ^may.' 

Sometimes  and  more  particularly  at  first  Bealby 
felt  as  though  a  ferocious  beast  lurked  in  the 
tramp  and  peeped  out  through  the  fallen  hank 
of  hair  and  might  leap  out  upon  him,  and  some- 
times he  felt  the  tramp  was  large  and  fine  and 
gay  and  amusing,  more  particularly  when  he 
lifted  his  voice  and  his  bristling  chin.  And  ever 
and  again  the  talker  became  a  nasty  creature  and 
a  disgusting  creature,  and  his  red-lit  face  was  an 
ugly  creeping  approach  that  made  Bealby  recoil. 
And  then  again  he  was  strong  and  wise.  So  the 
unstable  needle  of  a  boy's  moral  compass  spins. 

The  tramp  used  strange  terms.  He  spoke  of 
the  ^deputy'  and  the  ^doss-house,'  of  the  ^ spike' 
and  ^padding  the  hoof,'  of  Screevers'  and  ^tarts' 
and  ^copper's  narks.'  To  these  words  Bealby 
attached  such  meanings  as  he  could,  and  so  the 
things  of  which  the  tramp  talked  floated  unsurely 
into  his  mind  and  again  and  again  he  had  to  read- 
just and  revise  his  interpretations.  And  through 
these  dim  and  fluctuating  veils  a  new  side  of  life 
dawned  upon  his  consciousness,  a  side  that  was 
strange  and  lawless  and  dirty  —  in  every  way 
dirty  —  and     dreadful     ^nd  —  attractive.     That 


BEALBY  AND  THE  TRAMP  199 

was  the  queer  thing  about  it,  that  attraction.  It 
had  humour.  For  all  its  squalor  and  repulsive- 
ness  it  was  lit  by  defiance  and  laughter,  bitter 
laughter  perhaps,  but  laughter.  It  had  a  gaiety 
that  Mr.  Mergleson  for  example  did  not  possess, 
it  had  a  penetration,  like  the  penetrating  quality 
of  onions  or  acids  or  asafoetida,  that  made  the 
memory  of  Mr.  Darling  insipid. 

The  tramp  assumed  from  the  outset  that  Bealby 
had  'done  something'  and  run  away,  and  some 
mysterious  etiquette  prevented  his  asking  directly 
what  was  the  nature  of  his  offence.  But  he  made 
a  number  of  insidious  soundings.  And  he  as- 
sumed that  Bealby  was  taking  to  the  life  of  the 
road  and  that,  until  good  cause  to  the  contrary 
appeared,  they  were  to  remain  together.  "It's 
a  tough  life,''  he  said,  "but  it  has  its  points,  and 
you  got  a  toughish  look  about  you." 

He  talked  of  roads  and  the  quality  of  roads  and 
countryside.  This  was  a  good  countryside ;  it 
wasn't  overdone  and  there  was  no  great  hostility 
to  wanderers  and  sleeping  out.  Some  roads  — 
the  London  to  Brighton  for  example,  if  a  chap 
struck  a  match,  somebody  came  running.  But 
here  unless  you  went  pulling  the  haystacks  about 
too  much  they  left  you  alone.  And  they  weren't 
such  dead  nuts  on  their  pheasants,  and  one  had  a 
chance  of  an  empty  cowshed.  "If  I've  spotted  a 
shed  or  anything  with  a  roof  to  it  I  stay  out," 
said  the  tramp,  "even  if  it's  raining  cats  and  dogs. 
Otherwise  it's  the  doss-'ouse  or  the  'spike.' 
It's  the  rain  is  the  worst  thing  —  getting  wet. 
You  haven't  been  wet  yet,  not  if  you  only  started 


200  BEALBY 

Monday.  Wet  —  with  a  chilly  wind  to  drive  it. 
Gaw !  I  been  blown  out  of  a  holly  hedge.  You 
would  think  there'd  be  protection  in  a  holly 
hedge.   .  .  . 

"Spike^s  the  last  thing,"  said  the  tramp. 
"I'd  rather  go  bare-gutted  to  a  doss-'ouse  any- 
when.  Gaw !  ~  you've  not  'ad  your  first  taste 
of  the  spike  yet." 

But  it  wasn't  heaven  in  the  doss-houses.  He 
spoke  of  several  of  the  landladies  in  strange 
but  it  would  seem  unflattering  terms.  "And 
there's  always  such  a  blamed  lot  of  washing  going 
on  in  a  doss-'ouse.  Always  washing  they  are ! 
One  chap's  washing  'is  socks  and  another's  wash- 
ing 'is  shirt.  Making  a  steam  drying  it.  Dis- 
gustin'.  Carn't  see  what  they  want  with  it  all. 
Barnd  to  git  dirty  again.  ..." 

He  discoursed  of  spikes,  that  is  to  say  of  work- 
houses, and  of  masters.  "And  then,"  he  said, 
with  revolting  yet  alluring  adjectives,  "there's 
the  bath." 

"That's  the  worst  side  of  it,"  said  the  tramp. 
.  .  .  "'Owever,  it  doesn't  always  rain,  and  if  it 
doesn't  rain,  well,  you  can  keep  yourself  dry." 

He  came  back  to  the  pleasanter  aspects  of 
the  nomadic  life.  He  was  all  for  the  outdoor 
style.  "Ain't  we  comfortable  'ere?"  he  asked. 
He  sketched  out  the  simple  larcenies  that  had  con- 
tributed and  given  zest  to  the  evening's  meal. 
But  it  seemed  there  were  also  doss-houses  that 
had  the  agreeable  side.  "Never  been  in  one!" 
he  said.  "But  where  you  been  sleeping  since 
Monday?" 


BEALBY  AND  THE  TRAMP  201 

Bealby  described  the  caravan  in  phrases  that 
seemed  suddenly  thin  and  anaemic  to  his  ears. 

"You  hit  it  lucky/^  said  the  tramp.  "If  a 
chapes  a  kid  he  strikes  all  sorts  of  luck  of  that  sort. 
Now  ef  /  come  up  against  three  ladies  travelHn' 
in  a  van  —  think  they'd  arst  me  in?     Not  it!" 

He  dwelt  with  manifest  envy  on  the  situation 
and  the  possibilities  of  the  situation  for  some 
time.  "You  ain't  dangerous/'  he  said;  "that's 
where  you  get  in.  .  .  ." 

He  consoled  himself  by  anecdotes  of  remark- 
able good  fortunes  of  a  kindred  description. 
Apparently  he  sometimes  travelled  in  the  company 
of  a  lady  named  Izzy  Berners  —  "a  fair  scorcher, 
been  a  regular,  slap-up  circus  actress."  And 
there  was  also  "good  old  Susan."  It  was  a  little 
difficult  for  Bealby  to  see  the  point  of  some  of 
these  flashes  by  a  tendency  on  the  part  of  the 
tramp  while  his  thoughts  turned  on  these  matters 
to  adopt  a  staccato  style  of  speech,  punctuated  by 
brief;  darkly  significant  guffaws.  There  grew 
in  the  mind  of  Bealby  a  vision  of  the  doss-house 
as  a  large  crowded  place,  lit  by  a  great  central 
fire,  with  much  cooking  afoot  and  much  jawing 
and  disputing  going  on,  and  then  "me  and  Izzy 
sailed  in.  .  .  ." 

The  fire  sank,  the  darkness  of  the  woods  seemed 
to  creep  nearer.  The  moonlight  pierced  the 
trees  only  in  long  beams  that  seemed  to  point 
steadfastly  at  unseen  things,  it  made  patches  of 
ashen  light  that  looked  like  watching  faces. 
Under  the  tramp's  direction  Bealby  skirmished 
round  and  got  sticks  and  fed  the  fire  until  the 


202  BEALBY 

darkness  and  thoughts  of  a  possible  gorilla  were 
driven  back  for  some  yards  and  the  tramp  pro- 
nounced the  blaze  a  ^^fair  treat."  He  had  made  a 
kind  of  bed  of  leaves  which  he  now  invited  Bealby 
to  extend  and  share,  and  lying  feet  to  the  fire 
he  continued  his  discourse. 

He  talked  of  stealing  and  cheating  by  various 
endearing  names ;  he  made  these  enterprises  seem 
adventurous  and  facetious;  there  was  it  seemed 
a  peculiar  sort  of  happy  find  one  came  upon 
called  a  ^^flat,"  that  it  was  not  only  entertaining 
but  obligatory  to  swindle.  He  made  fraud  seem 
so  smart  and  bright  at  times  that  Bealby  found  it 
difficult  to  keep  a  firm  grasp  on  the  fact  that  it  was 

—  fraud.  .  .  . 

Bealby  lay  upon  the  leaves  close  up  to  the  prone 
body  of  the  tramp,  and  his  mind  and  his  stand- 
ards became  confused.  The  tramp's  body  was  a 
dark  but  protecting  ridge  on  one  side  of  him; 
he  could  not  see  the  fire  beyond  his  toes  but  its 
flickerings  were  reflected  by  the  tree  stems  about 
them,  and  made  perplexing  sudden  movements 
that  at  times  caught  his  attention  and  made  him 
raise  his  head  to  watch  them.  .  .  .  Against 
the  terrors  of  the  night  the  tramp  had  become 
humanity,  the  species,  the  moral  basis.  His 
voice  was  full  of  consolation;  his  topics  made 
one  forget  the  watchful  silent  circumambient. 
Bealby's,  first  distrusts  faded.  He  began  to 
think  the  tramp  a  fine,  brotherly,  generous 
fellow.  He  was  also  growing  accustomed  to  a 
faint  something  —  shall  I  call  it  an  olfactory  bar 

—  that  had  hitherto  kept  them  apart.     The  mono- 


BEALBY  AND  THE  TRAMP  203 

logue  ceased  to  devote  itself  to  the  elucidation  of 
Bealby ;  the  tramp  was  lying  on  his  back  with  his 
fingers  interlaced  beneath  his  head  and  talking 
not  so  much  to  his  companion  as  to  the  stars  and 
the  universe  at  large.  His  theme  was  no  longer 
the  wandering  life  simply  but  the  wandering  life 
as  he  had  led  it,  and  the  spiritedness  with  which 
he  had  led  it  and  the  real  and  admirable  quality 
of  himself.  It  was  that  soliloquy  of  consolation 
which  is  the  secret  preservative  of  innumerable  lives. 
He  wanted  to  make  it  perfectly  clear  that  he 
was  a  tramp  by  choice.  He  also  wanted  to  make 
it  clear  that  he  was  a  tramp  and  no  better  because 
of  the  wicked  folly  of  those  he  had  trusted  and 
the  evil  devices  of  enemies.  In  the  world  that 
contained  those  figures  of  spirit,  Isopel  Berners 
and  Susan,  there  was  also  it  seemed  a  bad  and 
spiritless  person,  the  tramp's  wife,  who  had  done 
him  many  passive  injuries.  It  was  clear  she  did 
not  appreciate  her  blessings.  She  had  been  much 
to  blame.  "Anybody's  opinion  is  better  than 
'er  'usband's,"  said  the  tramp.  "Always  'as 
been."  Bealby  had  a  sudden  memory  of  Mr. 
Darling  saying  exactly  the  same  thing  of  his 
mother.  "She's  the  sort,"  said  the  tramp,  "what 
would  rather  go  to  a  meetin'  than  a  music  'all. 
She'd  rather  drop  a  shilling  down  a  crack  than 
spend  it  on  anything  decent.  If  there  was  a  choice 
of  jobs  going  she'd  ask  which  'ad  the  lowest  pay 
and  the  longest  hours  and  she'd  choose  that. 
She'd  feel  safer.  She  was  born  scared.  When 
there  wasn't  anything  else  to  do  she'd  stop  at 
'ome  and  scrub  the  floors.     Gaw !  it  made  a  chap 


204  BEALBY 

want  to  put  the  darn'  pail  over  'er  'ed,  so's  she'd 
get  enough  of  it.  .  .  . 

'^I  don't  hold  with  all  this  crawling  through 
life  and  saying  Please,^^  said  the  tramp.  "I  say- 
it's  my  world  just  as  much  as  it's  your  world. 
You  may  have  your  'orses  and  carriages,  your 
'ouses  and  country  places  and  all  that  and  you 
may  think  Gawd  sent  me  to  run  abart  and  work 
for  you ;  but  /  don't.     See  ?  " 

Bealby  saw. 

"I  seek  my  satisfactions  just  as  you  seek  your 
satisfactions;  and  if  you  want  to  get  me  to  work 
you've  jolly  well  got  to  make  me.  I  don't  choose 
to  work.  I  choose  to  keep  on  my  own  and  a  bit 
loose  and  take  my  chance  where  I  find  it.  You 
got  to  take  your  chances  in  this  world.  Some- 
times they  come  bad  and  sometimes  they  come 
good.  And  very  often  you  can't  tell  which  it  is 
when  they  'ave  come.  .  .   ." 

Then  he  fell  questioning  Bealby  again  and  then 
he  talked  of  the  immediate  future.  He  was 
beating  for  the  seaside.  ^^  Always  something 
doing/'  he  said.  "You  got  to  keep  your  eye  on 
for  cops ;  those  seaside  benches,  they're  'ot  on 
tramps  —  give  you  a  month  for  begging  soon  as 
look  at  you  —  but  there's  flats  dropping  sixpences 
thick  as  flies  on  a  sore  'orse.  You  want  a  there 
for  all  sorts  of  jobs.  You're  just  the  chap  for 
it,  matey.  Saw  it  soon's  ever  I  set  eyes  on 
you.   ..." 

He  made  projects.  .  .  . 

Finally  he  became  more  personal  and  very 
flattering. 


BEALBY  AND  THE  TRAMP  205 

"Now  you  and  me/^  he  said,  suddenly  shifting 
himself  quite  close  to  Bealby,  "we're  going  to  be 
downright  pals.  I've  took  a  liking  to  you.  Me 
and  you  are  going  to  pal  together.     See?" 

He  breathed  into  Bealby's  face,  and  laid  a 
hand  on  his  knee  and  squeezed  it;  and  Bealby,  on 
the  whole,  felt  honoured  by  his  protection.  .  .  . 

§4 

In  the  unsympathetic  light  of  a  bright  and 
pushful  morning  the  tramp  was  shorn  of  much 
of  his  overnight  glamour.  It  became  manifest 
that  he  was  not  merely  offensively  unshaven,  but 
extravagantly  dirty.  It  was  not  ordinary  rural 
dirt.  During  the  last  few  days  he  must  have  had 
dealings  of  an  intimate  nature  with  coal.  He 
was  taciturn  and  irritable,  he  declared  that  this 
sleeping  out  would  be  the  death  of  him  and  the 
breakfast  was  only  too  manifestly  wanting  in  the 
comforts  of  a  refined  home.  He  seemed  a  little 
less  embittered  after  breakfast,  he  became  even 
faintly  genial,  but  he  remained  unpleasing.  A 
distaste  for  the  tramp  arose  in  Bealby's  mind  and 
as  he  walked  on  behind  his  guide  and  friend,  he 
revolved  schemes  of  unobtrusive  detachment. 

Far  be  it  from  me  to  accuse  Bealby  of  in- 
gratitude. But  it  is  true  that  that  same  dis- 
inclination which  made  him  a  disloyal  assistant 
to  Mr.  Mergleson  was  now  affecting  his  comrade- 
ship with  the  tramp.  And  he  was  deceitful.  He 
allowed  the  tramp  to  build  projects  in  the  con- 
fidence of  his  continued  adhesion,  he  did  not  warn 


206  BEALBY 

him  of  the  defection  he  meditated.  But  on  the 
other  hand  Bealby  had  acquired  from  his  mother 
an  effective  horror  of  steahng.  And  one  must 
admit,  since  the  tramp  admitted  it,  that  the  man 
stole. 

And  another  Kttle  matter  had  at  the  same  time 
estranged  Bealby  from  the  tramp  and  linked  the 
two  of  them  together.  The  attentive  reader  will 
know  that  Bealby  had  exactly  two  shillings  and 
twopence-halfpenny  when  he  came  down  out  of 
the  woods  to  the  fireside.  He  had  Mrs.  Bowles^ 
half-crown  and  the  balance  of  Madeleine  Philips' 
theatre  shilling,  minus  sixpence-halfpenny  for  a 
collar  and  sixpence  he  had  given  the  tramp  for 
the  soup  overnight.  But  all  this  balance  was  now 
in  the  pocket  of  the  tramp.  Money  talks  and  the 
tramp  had  heard  it.  He  had  not  taken  it  away 
from  Bealby,  but  he  had  obtained  it  in  this 
manner:  "We  two  are  pals,''  he  said,  "and  one 
of  us  had  better  be  Treasurer.  That's  Me.  I 
know  the  ropes  better.  So  hand  over  what  you 
got  there,  matey." 

And  after  he  had  pointed  out  that  a  refusal 
might  lead  to  Bealby's  evisceration  the  transfer 
occurred.  Bealby  was  searched,  kindly  but 
firmly.   ... 

It  seemed  to  the  tramp  that  this  trouble  had 
now  blown  over  completely. 

Little  did  he  suspect  the  rebellious  and  treacher- 
ous thoughts  that  seethed  in  the  head  of  his  com- 
panion. Little  did  he  suppose  that  his  personal 
appearance,  his  manners,  his  ethical  flavour  — 
nay,    even    his    physical    flavour  —  were    being 


BEALBY  AND  THE  TRAMP  207 

judged  in  a  spirit  entirely  unamiable.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  he  had  obtained  youthful  and  sub- 
servient companionship,  companionship  that 
would  be  equally  agreeable  and  useful;  he  had 
adopted  a  course  that  he  imagined  would  cement 
the  ties  between  them;  he  reckoned  not  with 
ingratitude.  "If  anyone  arsts  you  who  I  am, 
call  me  uncle/'  he  said.  He  walked  along,  a 
little  in  advance,  sticking  his  toes  out  right  and 
left  in  a  peculiar  wide  pace  that  characterized 
his  walk,  and  revolving  schemes  for  the  happiness 
and  profit  of  the  day.  To  begin  with  —  great 
draughts  of  beer.  Then  tobacco.  Later  perhaps 
a  little  bread  and  cheese  for  Bealby.  "You 
can't  come  in  'ere,"  he  said  at  the  first  public 
house.  "You're  under  age,  me  boy.  It  ain't 
my  doing,  matey;  it's  'Erbert  Samuel.  You 
blame  'im.  'E  don't  objec'  to  you  going  to  work 
for  any  other  Mr.  Samuel  there  may  'appen  to 
be  abart  or  anything  of  that  sort,  that's  good  for 
you,  that  is ;  but  'e's  most  particular  you  shouldn't 
go  into  a  public  'ouse.  So  you  just  wait  abart 
outside  'ere.     Pll  'ave  my  eye  on  you." 

"You  going  to  spend  my  money?"  asked 
Bealby. 

"I'm  going  to  ration  the  party,"  said  the 
tramp. 

"You  —  you  got  no  right  to  spend  my  money," 
said  Bealby. 

"  I —  'Ang  it !  —  I'll  get  you  some  acid  drops," 
said  the  tramp  in  tones  of  remonstrance.  "I 
tell  you,  blame  you, — it's  'Erbert  Samuel.^  I 
can't  'elp  it !    I  can't  fight  against  the  lor." 


208  BEALBY 

^'Youhaven^t  any  right  to  spend  my  money/^ 
said  Bealby. 

'^ Downt  cut  up  crusty.     'Ow  can  I  'elp  it?" 

"Ill  tell  a  policeman.  You  gimme  back  my 
money  and  lemme  go." 

The  tramp  considered  the  social  atmosphere.  It 
did  not  contain  a  policeman.  It  contained  nothing 
but  a  peaceful  kindly  corner  public  house,  a  sleep- 
ing dog  and  the  back  of  an  elderly  man  digging. 

The  tramp  approached  Bealby  in  a  confidential 
manner.  "'Oo's  going  to  believe  you?"  he 
said.     "And  besides,  'ow  did  you  come  by  it? 

"Moreover,  /  ain't  going  to  spend  your 
money.  I  got  money  of  my  own.  'Ere!  See?" 
And  suddenly  before  the  dazzled  eyes  of  Bealby 
he  held  and  instantly  withdrew  three  shillings 
and  two  coppers  that  seemed  famihar.  He  had 
had  a  shilling  of  his  own.  .  .  . 

Bealby  waited  outside.  .  .  . 

The  tramp  emerged  in  a  highly  genial  mood, 
with  acid  drops,  and  a  short  clay  pipe  going 
strong.  "'Ere,"  he  said  to  Bealby  with  just  the 
faintest  flavour  of  magnificence  over  the  teeth- 
held  pipe  and  handed  over  not  only  the  acid  drops 
but  a  virgin  short  clay.  "Fill,"  he  said,  proffer- 
ing the  tobacco.  "It's  yours  jus'  much  as  it's 
mine.  Be'r  not  let  'Erbert  Samuel  see  you, 
though  ;  that's  all.     'E's  got  a  lor  abart  it." 

Bealby  held  his  pipe  in  his  clenched  hand.  He 
had  already  smoked  —  once.  He  remembered  it 
quite  vividly  still,  although  it  had  happened  six 
months  ago.  Yet  he  hated  not  using  that  to- 
bacco.    "No,"  he  said,  "I'll  smoke  later." 


BEALBY  AND  THE  TRAMP  209 

The  tramp  replaced  the  screw  of  red  Virginia/ 
in  his  pocket  with  the  air  of  one  who  has  done 
the  gentlemanly  thing.  .  .  . 

They  went  on  their  way,  an  ill-assorted  couple. 

All  day  Bealby  chafed  at  the  tie  and  saw  the 
security  in  the  tramp's  pocket  vanish.  They 
lunched  on  bread  and  cheese  and  then  the  tramp 
had  a  good  sustaining  drink  of  beer  for  both  of 
them  and  after  that  they  came  to  a  common  where 
it  seemed  agreeable  to  repose.  And  after  a  due 
meed  of  repose  in  a  secluded  hollow  among  the 
gorse  the  tramp  produced  a  pack  of  exceedingly 
greasy  cards  and  taught  Bealby  to  play  Euchre. 
Apparently  the  tramp  had  no  distinctive  pockets 
in  his  tail  coat,  the  whole  lining  was  one  capacious 
pocket.  Various  knobs  and  bulges  indicated  his 
cooking  tin,  his  feeding  tin,  a  turnip  and  other 
unknown  properties.  At  first  they  played  for 
love  and  then  they  played  for  the  balance  in  the 
tramp's  pocket.  And  by  the  time  Bealby  had 
learnt  Euchre  thoroughly,  that  balance  belonged 
to  the  tramp.  But  he  was  very  generous  about  it 
and  said  they  would  go  on  sharing  just  as  they 
had  done.  And  then  he  became  confidential. 
He  scratched  about  in  the  bagginess  of  his  gar- 
ment and  drew  out  a  little  dark  blade  of  stuff, 
like  a  flint  implement,  regarded  it  gravely  for  a 
moment  and  held  it  out  to  Bealby.  '^  Guess  what 
this  is." 

Bealby  gave  it  up. 

^' Smell  it." 

It  smelt  very  nasty.  One  familiar  smell  indeed 
there  was  with   a  paradoxical   sanitary   quality 


210  BEALBY 

that  he  did  not  quite  identify,  but  that  was  a 
mere  basis  for  a  complex  reek  of  acquisitions. 
^^Whatisit?"saidBealby. 

''Soap!'' 

''But  what's  it  for?" 

"I  thought  you'd  arst  that.  .  .  .  What's 
soap  usually  for?" 

''Washing/'  said  Bealby  guessing  wildly. 

The  tramp  shook  his  head.  "Making  a  foam," 
he  corrected.  "That's  what  I  has  my  fits  with. 
See?  I  shoves  a  bit  in  my  mouth  and  down  I 
goes  and  I  rolls  about.  Making  a  sort  of  moaning 
sound.  Why,  I  been  given  brandy  often  — neat 
brandy.  ...  It  isn't  always  a  cert  —  nothing's 
absolutely  a  cert.  I've  'ad  some  let-downs.  .  .  . 
Once  I  was  bit  by  a  nasty  little  dog  —  that  brought 
me  to  pretty  quick  —  and  once  I  'ad  an  old  gentle- 
man go  through  my  pockets.  'Poor  chap  !'  'e  ses, 
'very  likely  'e's  destitoot,  let's  see  if  'e's  got 
anything.'  .  .  .  I'd  got  all  sorts  of  things,  I 
didn't  want  'im  prying  about.  But  I  didn't 
come-to  sharp  enough  to  stop  'im.  Got  me  into 
trouble  that  did.  .  .  . 

"It's  an  old  lay,"  said  the  tramp,  "but  it's 
astonishing  'ow  it'll  go  in  a  quiet  village.  Sort 
of  amuses  'em.  Or  dropping  suddenly  in  front  of 
a  bicycle  party.  Lot  of  them  old  tricks  are  the 
best  tricks,  and  there  ain't  many  of  'em  Billy 
Bridget  don't  know.  That's  where  you're  lucky 
to  'ave  met  me,  matey.  Billy  Bridget's  a  'ard 
man  to  starve.  And  I  know  the  ropes.  I  know 
what  you  can  do  and  what  you  can't  do.  And 
I  got  a  feeling  for  a  policeman  —  same  as  some 


BEALBY  AND  THE  TRAMP  211 

people  ^ave  for  cats.  I'd  know  if  one^was  'idden 
in  the  room.  .  .  ." 

He  expanded  into  anecdotes  and  the  story  of 
various  encounters  in  which  he  shone.  It  was 
amusing  and  it  took  Bealby  on  his  weak  side. 
Wasn't  he  the  Champion  Dodger  of  the  Chelsome 
playground  ? 

The  tide  of  talk  ebbed.  "  Well/'  said  the  tramp, 
"time  we  was  up  and  doing.  ..." 

They  went  along  shady  lanes  and  across  an 
open  park  and  they  skirted  a  breezy  common 
from  which  they  could  see  the  sea.  And  among 
other  things  that  the  tramp  said  was  this,  "Time 
we  began  to  forage  a  bit." 

He  turned  his  large  observant  nose  to  the  right 
of  him  and  the  left. 

§5 

Throughout  the  afternoon  the  tramp  discoursed 
upon  the  rights  and  wrongs  of  property,  in  a  way 
that  Bealby  found  very  novel  and  unsettling. 
The  tramp  seemed  to  have  his  ideas  about  owning 
and  stealing  arranged  quite  differently  from  those 
of  Bealby.  Never  before  had  Bealby  thought  it 
possible  to  have  them  arranged  in  any  other  than 
the  way  he  knew.  But  the  tramp  contrived  to 
make  most  possession  seem  unrighteous  and 
honesty  a  code  devised  by  those  who  have  for 
those  who  haven't.  "They've  just  got  'old  of 
it,"  he  said.  "They  want  to  keep  it  to  them- 
selves. .  .  .  Do  I  look  as  though  I'd  stole  much 
of  anybody's?  It  isn't  me  got  'old  of  this  land 
and  sticking  up  my  notice  boards  to  -keep  every- 


212  BEALBY 

body  off.  It  isn't  me  spends  my  days  and  nights 
scheming  'ow  I  can  get  'old  of  more  and  more 
of  the  stuff.  .  .  . 

"I  don't  envy  it  'em/'  said  the  tramp.  "Some 
'as  one  taste  and  some  another.  But  when  it 
comes  to  making  all  this  fuss  because  a  chap 
who  isnH  a  schemer  'elps  'imself  to  a  m^thful,  — 
well,  it's  Rot.  .  .  . 

"It's  them  makes  the  rules  of  the  game  and 
nobody  ever  arst  me  to  play  it.  I  don't  blame 
'em,  mind  you.  Me  and  you  might  very  well  do 
the  same.  But  brast  me  if  I  see  where  the  sense 
of  my  keeping  the  rules  comes  in.  This  world 
ought  to  be  a  share  out,  Gawd  meant  it  to  be  a 
share  out.  And  me  and  you  —  we  been  done  out 
of  our  share.     That  justifies  us." 

"It  isn't  right  to  steal,"  said  Bealby. 

"It  isn't  right  to  steal  —  certainly.  It  isn't 
right — but  it's  universal.  Here's  a  chap  here  over 
this  fence,  ask  'im  where  'e  got  'is  land.  Stealing ! 
What  you  call  stealing,  matey,  /  call  restitootion. 
You  ain't  probably  never  even  'eard  of  socialism." 

"I've  'eard  of  socialists  right  enough.  Don't 
believe  in  Gawd  and  'aven't  no  morality." 

"Don't  you  believe  it.  Why! —  'Arf  the  so- 
cialists are  parsons.  What  I'm  saying  is  socialism 
—  practically,  /'m  a  socialist.  I  know  all  abart 
socialism.  There  isn't  nothing  you  can  tell  me 
abart  socialism.  Why  !  —  for  three  weeks  I  was 
one  of  these  here  Anti-Socialist  speakers.  Paid 
for  it.  And  I  tell  you  there  ain't  such  a  thing  as 
property  left ;  it's  all  a  blooming  old  pinch. 
Lords,    commons,   judges,    all   of   them,   they're 


BEALBY  AND  THE  TRAMP  213 

just  a  crew  of  brasted  old  fences  and  the  lawyers 
getting  in  the  stuff.  Then  you  talk  to  me  of 
stealing  !    Stealing ! " 

The  tramp's  contempt  and  his  intense  way  of 
saying  'stealing'  were  very  unsettling  to  a  sensi- 
tive mind. 

They  bought  some  tea  and  grease  in  a  village 
shop  and  the  tramp  made  tea  in  his  old  tin  with 
great  dexterity  and  then  they  gnawed  bread  on 
which  two  ounces  of  margarine  had  been  gener- 
ously distributed.  ''Live  like  fighting  cocks,  we 
do/'  said  the  tramp  wiping  out  hig  simple  cuisine 
with  the  dragged-out  end  of  his  shirt  sleeve. 
"And  if  I'm  not  very  much  mistaken  we'll  sleep 
to-night  on  a  nice  bit  of  hay.  ..." 

But  these  anticipations  were  upset  by  a  sudden 
temptation,  and  instead  of  a  starry  summer  com- 
fort the  two  were  destined  to  spend  a  night  of 
suffering  and  remorse. 

A  green  lane  lured  them  off  the  road,  and  after 
some  windings  led  them  past  a  field  of  wire- 
netted  enclosures  containing  a  number  of  perfect 
and  conceited-looking  hens  close  beside  a  little 
cottage,  a  vegetable  garden  and  some  new  elabo- 
rate outhouses.  It  was  manifestly  a  poultry 
farm,  and  something  about  it  gave  the  tramp 
the  conviction  that  it  had  been  left,  that  nobody 
was  at  home. 

These  realizations  are  instinctive,  they  leap 
to  the  mind.  He  knew  it,  and  an  ambition  to 
know  further  what  was  in  the  cottage  came  with 
the  knowledge.  But  it  seemed  to  him  desirable 
that  the  work  of  exploration  should  be  done  by 


214  BEALBY 

Bealby.  He  had  thought  of  dogs,  and  it  seemed 
to  him  that  Bealby  might  be  unembarrassed  by 
that  idea.  So  he  put  the  thing  to  Bealby.  "  Let's 
have  a  look  round  ^ere/'  he  said.  "You  go  in 
and  see  what's  abart.  .  .  .'' 

There  was  some  difference  of  opinion.  "I 
don't  ask  you  to  take  anything/'  said  the  tramp. 
.  .  .  "Nobody  won't  catch  you.  ...  I  tell 
you  nobody  won't  catch  you.  ...  I  tell  you 
there  ain't  nobody  here  to  catch  you.  .  .  .  Just 
for  the  fun  of  seeing  in.  I'll  go  up  by  them 
outhouses.  And  I'll  see  nobody  comes.  .  .  . 
Ain't  afraid  to  go  up  a  garden  path,  are  you? 
...  I  tell  you,  I  don't  want  you  to  steal.  .  .  . 
You  ain't  got  much  guts  to  funk  a  thing  like  that. 
.  .  .  I'll  be  abat  too.  .  .  .  Thought  you'd  be 
the  very  chap  for  a  bit  of  scarting.  ...  Thought 
Boy  Scarts  was  all  the  go  nowadays.  .  .  .  Well, 
if  you  ain't  afraid  you'd  do  it.  .  .  .  Well,  why 
didn't  you  say  you'd  do  it  at  the  beginning?  .  .  ." 

Bealby  went  through  the  hedge  and  up  a  grass 
track  between  poultry  runs,  made  a  cautious  in- 
spection of  the  outhouses  and  then  approached 
the  cottage.  Everything  was  still.  He  thought 
it  more  plausible  to  go  to  the  door  than  peep 
into  the  window.  He  rapped.  Then  after  an 
interval  of  stillness  he  lifted  the  latch,  opened  the 
door  and  peered  into  the  room.  It  was  a 
pleasantly  furnished  room,  and  before  the  empty 
summer  fireplace  a  very  old  white  man  was 
sitting  in  a  chintz-covered  arm-chair,  lost  it  would 
seem  in  painful  thought.  He  had  a  peculiar 
grey  shrunken  look,  his  eyes  were  closed,  a  bony 


BEALBY  AND  THE  TRAMP  215 

hand  with  the  shiny  texture  of  alabaster  gripped 
the  chair  arm.  .  .  .  There  was  something  about 
him  that  held  Bealby  quite  still  for  a  moment. 

And  this  old  gentleman  behaved  very  oddly. 

His  body  seemed  to  crumple  into  his  chair, 
his  hands  slipped  down  from  the  arms,  his  head 
nodded  forwards  and  his  mouth  and  eyes  seemed 
to  open  together.  And  he  made  a  snoring 
sound.  .  . 

For  a  moment  Bealby  remained  rigidly  agape 
and  then  a  violent  desire  to  rejoin  the  tramp 
carried  him  back  through  the  hen  runs.  .  .  . 

He  tried  to  describe  what  he  had  seen. 

"Asleep  with  his  mouth  open/'  said  the  tramp. 
"Well;  that  ain't  anything  so  wonderful !  You  got 
anything?  That's  what  I  want  to  know.  .  .  . 
Did  anyone  ever  see  such  a  boy  ?  'Ere !  I'll 
go.  .  .  . 

"You  keep  a  look  out  here/'  said  the  tramp. 

But  there  was  something  about  that  old  man 
in  there,  something  so  strange  and  alien  to  Bealby, 
that  he  could  not  remain  alone  in  the  falling 
twilight.  He  followed  the  cautious  advances  of 
the  tramp  towards  the  house.  From  the  corner 
by  the  outhouses  he  saw  the  tramp  go  and  peer  in 
at  the  open  door.  He  remained  for  some  time 
peering,  his  head  hidden  from  Bealby.  .  .  . 

Then  he  went  in.  .  .  . 

Bealby  had  an  extraordinary  desire  that  some- 
body else  would  come.  His  soul  cried  out  for 
help  against  some  vaguely  apprehended  terror. 
And  in  the  very  moment  of  his  wish  came  its 
fulfilment.     He    saw    advancing   up    the   garden 


216  BEALBY 

path  a  tall  woman  in  a  blue  serge  dress,  hatless 
and  hurrying  and  carrying  a  little  package  — 
it  was  medicine  —  in  her  hand.  And  with  her 
came  a  big  black  dog.  At  the  sight  of  Bealby 
the  dog  came  forward  barking  and  Bealby  after 
a  moment^s  hesitation  turned  and  fled. 

The  dog  was  quick.  But  Bealby  was  quicker. 
He  went  up  the  netting  of  a  hen  run  and  gave  the 
dog  no  more  than  an  ineffectual  snap  at  his  heels. 
And  then  dashing  from  the  cottage  door  came  the 
tramp.  Under  one  arm  was  a  brass-bound  work- 
box  and  in  the  other  was  a  candlestick  and  some 
smaller  articles.  He  did  not  instantly  grasp  the 
situation  of  his  treed  companion,  he  was  too 
anxious  to  escape  the  tall  woman,  and  then  with  a 
yelp  of  dismay  he  discovered  himself  between 
woman  and  dog.  All  too  late  he  sought  to  emulate 
Bealby.  The  workbox  slipped  from  under  his 
arm,  the  rest  of  his  plunder  fell  from  him,  for  an 
uneasy  moment  he  was  clinging  to  the  side  of  the 
swaying  hen  run  and  then  it  had  caved  in  and  the 
dog  had  got  him. 

The  dog  bit,  desisted  and  then  finding  itself 
confronted  by  two  men  retreated.  Bealby  and 
the  tramp  rolled  and  scrambled  over  the  other 
side  of  the  collapsed  netting  into  a  parallel  track 
and  were  halfway  to  the  hedge  before  the  dog,  — 
but  this  time  in  a  less  vehement  fashion,  —  re- 
sumed his  attack. 

He  did  not  close  with  them  again  and  at  the 
hedge  he  halted  altogether  and  remained  hacking 
the  gloaming  with  his  rage. 

The  woman  it  seemed  had  gone  into  the  house, 


BEALBY  AND  THE  TRAMP  217 

leaving  the  tramp^s  scattered  loot  upon  the  field 
of  battle. 

"This  means  mizzle,"  said  the  tramp,  leading 
the  way  at  a  trot. 

Bealby  saw  no  other  course  but  to  follow. 

He  had  a  feeling  as  though  the  world  had  turned 
against  him.  He  did  not  dare  to  think  what  he 
was  nevertheless  thinking  of  the  events  of  these 
crowded  ten  minutes.  He  felt  he  had  touched 
something  dreadful ;  that  the  twilight  was  full  of 
accusations.  .  .  .  He  feared  and  hated  the  tramp 
now,  but  he  perceived  something  had  linked 
them  as  they  had  not  been  linked  before.  What- 
ever it  was  they  shared  it. 

§6 

They  fled  through  the  night ;  it  seemed  to 
Bealby  for  interminable  hours.  At  last  when  they 
were  worn  out  and  footsore  they  crept  through  a 
gate  and  found  an  uncomfortable  cowering  place 
in  the  corner  of  a  field. 

As  they  went  they  talked  but  little,  but  the 
tramp  kept  up  a  constant  muttering  to  himself. 
He  was  troubled  by  the  thought  of  hydrophobia. 

"I  know  I'll  'ave  it,"  he  said,  "I  know  I'll  get 
it." 

Bealby  after  a  time  ceased  to  listen  to  his  com- 
panion. His  mind  was  preoccupied.  He  could 
think  of  nothing  but  that  very  white  man  in  the 
chair  and  the  strange  manner  of  his  movement. 

"Was  'e  awake  when  you  saw  'im?"  he  asked 
at  last. 


218  BEALBY 

"Awake  — who?" 

"That  old  man.'^ 

For  a  moment  or  so  the  tramp  said  nothing. 
"'E  wasn't  awake,  you  young  silly,"  he  said  at 
last. 

"But  — wasn^the?" 

"  Why !  —  don't  you  know  !  'E'd  croaked,  — 
popped  off  the  'ooks  —  very  moment  you  saw 
'im." 

For  a  moment  Bealby's  voice  failed  him. 

Then  he  said  quite  faintly,  "You  mean  — 
he'd—.     Was  dead?" 

"Didn't  you  know?"  said  the  tramp.  "Gaw! 
"What  a  kid  you  are!" 

In  that  manner  it  was  Bealby  first  saw  a  dead 
man.  Never  before  had  he  seen  anyone  dead. 
And  after  that  for  all  the  night  the  old  white 
man  pursued  him,  with  strange  slowly-opening 
eyes,  and  a  head  on  one  side  and  his  mouth 
suddenly  and  absurdly  agape.  .  .  . 

All  night  long  that  white  figure  presided  over 
seas  of  dark  dismay.  It  seemed  always  to  be 
there,  and  yet  Bealby  thought  of  a  score  of  other 
painful  things.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he 
asked  himself,  "Where  am  I  going?  What  am  I 
drifting  to?"  The  world  beneath  the  old  man's 
dominance  was  a  world  of  prisons. 

Bealby  believed  he  was  a  burglar  and  behind 
the  darkness  he  imagined  the  outraged  law 
already  seeking  him.  And  the  terrors  of  his 
associate  reinforced  his  own. 

He  tried  to  think  what  he  should  do  in  the  morn- 
ing.    He  dreaded  the  dawn  profoundly.     But  he 


BEALBY  AND  THE  TRAMP  219 

could  not  collect  his  thoughts  because  of  the 
tramp's  incessant  lapses  into  grumbling  lamenta- 
tion. Bealby  knew  he  had  to  get  away  from  the 
tramp,  but  now  he  was  too  weary  and  alarmed  to 
think  of  running  away  as  a  possible  expedient. 
And  besides  there  was  the  matter  of  his  money. 
And  beyond  the  range  of  the  tramp's  voice  there 
were  darknesses  which  to-night  at  least  might 
hold  inconceivable  forms  of  lurking  evil.  But 
could  he  not  appeal  to  the  law  to  save  him? 
Repent  ?  Was  there  not  something  called  turning 
King's  Evidence? 

The  moon  was  no  comfort  that  night.  Across 
it  there  passed  with  incredible  slowness  a  number 
of  jagged  little  black  clouds,  blacker  than  any 
clouds  Bealby  had  ever  seen  before.  They  were 
like  velvet  palls,  lined  with  snowy  fur.  There 
was  no  end  to  them.  And  one  at  last  most 
horribly  gaped  slowly  and  opened  a  mouth.  .  .  . 


At  intervals  there  would  be  uncomfortable 
movements  and  the  voice  of  the  tramp  came  out 
of  the  darkness  beside  Bealby  lamenting  his 
approaching  fate  and  discoursing  —  sometimes 
■mth  violent  expressions  —  on  watch-dogs. 

"I  know  I  shall  'ave  'idrophobia/'  said  the 
tramp.  ^^I've  always  'ad  a  disposition  to  'idro- 
phobia. Always  a  dread  of  water  —  and  now 
it's  got  me. 

"Think  of  it!  —  keeping  a  beast  to  set  at  a 
'uman  being.     Where's  the  brotherhood  of  it? 


220  BEALBY 

Where's  the  law  and  the  humanity?  Getting  a 
animal  to  set  at  a  brother  man.  And  a  poisoned 
animal,  a  animal  with  death  in  his  teeth.  And 
a  'orrible  death  too.  Where's  the  sense  and 
brotherhood  ? 

'^  Gaw !  when  I  felt  'is  teeth  coming  through 
my  trasers  —  I 

"Dogs  oughtn't  to  be  allowed.  They're  a 
noosance  in  the  towns  and  a  danger  in  the  country. 
They  oughtn't  to  be  allowed  anywhere  —  not  till 
every  blessed  'uman  being  'as  got  three  square 
meals  a  day.  Then  if  you  like,  keep  a  dog. 
And  see  'e's  a  clean  dog.  .  .  . 

"  Gaw !  if  I'd  been  a  bit  quicker  up  that  'en 
roost  — ! 

"I  ought  to  'ave  landed  'im  a  kick. 

"It's  a  man's  duty  to  'urt  a  dog.  When  'e 
sees  a  dog  'e  ought  to  'urt'  im.  It's  a  natural 
'atred.  If  dogs  were  what  they  ought  to  be, 
if  dogs  understood  'ow  they're  situated,  there 
wouldn't  be  a  dog  go  for  a  man  ever. 

"And  if  one  did  they'd  shoot  'im.  .  .  . 

"After  this  if  ever  I  get  a  chance  to  land  a 
dog  a  oner  with  a  stone  I'll  land  'im  one.  I 
been  too  sorft  with  dogs.  ..." 

Towards  dawn  Bealby  slept  uneasily,  to  be 
awakened  by  the  loud  snorting  curiosity  of  three 
lively  young  horses.  He  sat  up  in  a  blinding 
sunshine  and  saw  the  tramp  looking  very  filthy 
and  contorted,  sleeping  with  his  mouth  wide 
open  and  an  expression  of  dismay  and  despair  on 
his  face. 


BEALBY  AND  THE  TRAMP  221 

§8 

Bealby  took  his  chance  to  steal  away  next 
morning  while  the  tramp  was  engaged  in  artificial 
epilepsy. 

''I  feel  like  fits  this  morning/'  said  the  tramp. 
"I  could  do  it  well.  I  want  a  bit  of  human 
kindness  again.     After  that  brasted  dog. 

"I  expect  soon  I'll  'ave  the  foam  all  right 
withat  any  soap.'' 

They  marked  down  a  little  cottage  before  which 
a  benevolent-looking  spectacled  old  gentleman 
in  a  large  straw  hat  and  a  thin  alpaca  jacket  was 
engaged  in  budding  roses.  Then  they  retired  to 
prepare.  The  tramp  handed  over  to  Bealby 
various  compromising  possessions,  which  might 
embarrass  an  afflicted  person  under  the  searching 
hands  of  charity.  There  was  for  example  the 
piece  of  soap  after  he  had  taken  sufficient  for  his 
immediate  needs,  there  was  ninepence  in  money, 
there  were  the  pack  of  cards  with  which  they  had 
played  Euchre,  a  key  or  so  and  some  wires,  much 
assorted  string,  three  tins,  a  large  piece  of  bread, 
the  end  of  a  composite  candle,  a  box  of  sulphur 
matches,  list  slippers,  a  pair  of  gloves,  a  clasp 
knife,  sundry  grey  rags.  They  all  seemed  to 
have  the  distinctive  flavour  of  the  tramp.  .  .  . 

"If  you  do  a  bunk  with  these,"  said  the  tramp. 
"By  Gawd—." 

He  drew  his  finger  across  his  throat. 

(King's  Evidence.) 

Bealby  from  a  safe  distance  watched  the  be- 
ginnings of  the  fit  and  it  impressed  him  as  a 


222  BEALBY 

thoroughly  nasty  kind  of  fit.  He  saw  the  elderly 
gentleman  hurry  out  of  the  cottage  and  stand  for 
a  moment  looking  over  his  little  green  garden 
gate,  surveying  the  sufferings  of  the  tramp  with 
an  expression  of  intense  yet  discreet  commisera- 
tion. Then  suddenly  he  was  struck  by  an  idea ; 
he  darted  in  among  his  rose  bushes  and  reappeared 
with  a  big  watering-can  and  an  enormous  syringe. 
Still  keeping  the  gate  between  himself  and  the 
sufferer  he  loaded  his  syringe  very  carefully  and 
deliberately.  .  .  . 

Bealby  would  have  liked  to  have  seen  more  but 
he  felt  his  moment  had  come.  Another  instant 
and  it  might  be  gone  again.  Very  softly  he 
dropped  from  the  gate  on  which  he  was  sitting 
and  made  off  like  a  running  partridge  along  the 
hedge  of  the  field. 

Just  for  a  moment  did  he  halt  —  at  a  strange 
sharp  yelp  that  came  from  the  direction  of  the 
little  cottage.  Then  his  purpose  of  flight  resumed 
its  control  of  him. 

He  would  strike  across  country  for  two  or  three 
miles,  then  make  for  the  nearest  police  station 
and  give  himself  up.  (Loud  voices.  Was  that 
the  tramp  murdering  the  benevolent  old  gentle- 
man in  the  straw  hat  or  was  it  the  benevolent  old 
gentleman  in  the  straw  hat  murdering  the  tramp  ? 
No  time  to  question.  Onward,  Onward !)  The 
tramp's  cans  rattled  in  his  pocket.  He  drew  one 
out,  hesitated  a  moment  and  flung  it  away  and 
then  sent  its  two  companions  after  it.  .  .  . 

He  found  his  police  station  upon  the  road  be- 
tween Someport  aiid  Crayminster,  a  little  peace- 


BEALBY  AND  THE  TRAMP  223 

ful  rural  station,  a  mere  sunny  cottage  with  a 
blue  and  white  label  and  a  notice  board  covered 
with  belated  bills  about  the  stealing  of  pheasants' 
eggs.     And  another  bill  — . 

It  was  headed  MISSING  and  the  next  most 
conspicuous  words  were  £5  reward  and  the 
next  ARTHUR  BEALBY. 

He  was  fascinated.  So  swift,  so  terribly  swift 
is  the  law.  Already  they  knew  of  his  burglary, 
of  his  callous  participation  in  the  robbing  of  a 
dead  man.  Already  the  sleuths  were  upon  his 
trail.  So  surely  did  his  conscience  strike  to  this 
conclusion  that  even  the  carelessly  worded  offer 
of  a  reward  that  followed  his  description  conveyed 
no  different  intimation  to  his  mind.  ^^To  whom- 
soever will  bring  him  back  to  Lady  Laxton,  at 
Shonts  near  Chelsmore,''  so  it  ran. 

"And  out  of  pocket  expenses." 

And  even  as  Bealby  read  this  terrible  document, 
the  door  of  the  police  station  opened  and  a  very 
big  pink  young  policeman  came  out  and  stood 
regarding  the  world  in  a  friendly,  self-approving 
manner.  He  had  innocent,  happy,  blue  eyes ; 
thus  far  he  had  had  much  to  do  with  order  and 
little  with  crime ;  and  his  rosebud  mouth  would 
have  fallen  open,  had  not  discipline  already 
closed  it  and  set  upon  it  the  beginnings  of  a 
resolute  expression  that  accorded  ill  with  the 
rest  of  his  open  freshness.  And  when  he  had  sur- 
veyed the  sky  and  the  distant  hills  and  the  little 
rose  bushes  that  occupied  the  leisure  of  the  force, 
his  eyes  fell  upon  Bealby.  .  .  . 

Indecision  has  ruined  more  men  than  wicked- 


224  BEALBY 

ness.  And  when  one  has  slept  rough  and  eaten 
nothing  and  one  is  conscious  of  a  marred  unclean 
appearance,  it  is  hard  to  face  one^s  situations. 
What  Bealby  had  intended  to  do  was  to  go  right 
up  to  a  policeman  and  say  to  him,  simply  and 
frankly  :  ^^I  want  to  turn  King's  Evidence,  please. 
I  was  in  that  burglary  where  there  was  a  dead 
old  man  and  a  workbox  and  a  woman  and  a  dog. 
I  was  led  astray  by  a  bad  character  and  I  did  not 
mean  to  do  it.  And  really  it  was  him  that  did 
it  and  not  me.'' 

But  now  his  tongue  clove  to  the  roof  of  his 
mouth,  he  felt  he  could  not  speak,  could  not  go 
through  with  it.  His  heart  had  gone  down  into 
his  feet.  Perhaps  he  had  caught  the  tramp's 
constitutional  aversion  to  the  police.  He  affected 
not  to  see  the  observant  figure  in  the  doorway. 
He  assumed  a  slack  careless  bearing  like  one  who 
reads  by  chance  idly.  He  lifted  his  eyebrows  to 
express  unconcern.  He  pursed  his  mouth  to 
whistle  but  no  whistle  came.  He  stuck  his  hands 
into  his  pockets,  pulled  up  his  feet  as  one  pulls 
up  plants  by  the  roots  and  strolled  away. 

He  quickened  his  stroll  as  he  supposed  by  im- 
perceptible degrees.  He  glanced  back  and  saw 
that  the  young  policeman  had  come  out  of  the 
station  and  was  reading  the  notice.  And  as  the 
young  policeman  read  he  looked  ever  and  again 
at  Bealby  like  one  who  checks  off  items. 

Bealby  quickened  his  pace  and  then,  doing  his 
best  to  suggest  by  the  movements  of  his  back  a 
more  boyish  levity  quite  unconnected  with  the  law, 
he  broke  into  a  trot. 


BEALBY  AND  THE  TRAMP  225 

Then  presently  he  dropped  back  into  a  walking 
parje,  pretended  to  see,  something  in  the  hedge, 
stopped  and  took  a  sidelong  look  at  the  young 
policeman. 

He  was  coming  along  with  earnest  strides ; 
every  movement  of  his  suggested  a  stealthy  hurry  ! 

Bealby  trotted  and  then  becoming  almost  frank 
about  it  ran.     He  took  to  his  heels. 

From  the  first  it  was  not  really  an  urgent 
chase;  it  was  a  stalking  rather  than  a  hunt, 
because  the  young  policeman  was  too  young  and 
shy  and  lacking  in  confidence  really  to  run  after 
a  boy  without  any  definite  warrant  for  doing  so. 
When  anyone  came  along  he  would  drop  into  a 
smart  walk  and  pretend  not  to  be  looking  at 
Bealby  but  just  going  somewhere  briskly.  And 
after  two  miles  of  it  he  desisted,  and  stood  for 
a  time  watching  a  heap  of  mangold  wurzel  directly 
and  the  disappearance  of  Bealby  obliquely,  and 
then  when  Bealby  was  quite  out  of  sight  he  turned 
back  thoughtfully  towards  his  proper  place. 

On  the  whole  he  considered  he  was  well  out  of 
it.     He  might  have  made  a  fool  of  himself.  .  .  . 

And  yet,  —  five  pounds  reward  ! 


Q 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE   BATTLE   OF  CRAYMINSTER 

§1 

Bealby  was  beginning  to  realize  that  running 
away  from  one's  situation  and  setting  up  for 
oneself  is  not  so  easy  and  simple  a  thing  as  it  had 
appeared  during  those  first  days  with  the  caravan. 
Three  things  he  perceived  had  arisen  to  pursue 
him,  two  that  followed  in  the  daylight,  the  law 
and  the  tramp,  and  a  third  that  came  back  at 
twilight,  the  terror  of  the  darkness.  And  within 
there  was  a  hollow  f aintness,  for  the  afternoon  was 
far  advanced  and  he  was  extremely  hungry. 
He  had  dozed  away  the  early  afternoon  in  the 
weedy  corner  of  a  wood.  But  for  his  hunger  I 
think  he  would  have  avoided  Crayminster. 

Within  a  mile  of  that  place  he  had  come  upon 
the  'Missing'  notice  again  stuck  to  the  end  of  a 
barn.  He  had  passed  it  askance,  and  then  with 
a  sudden  inspiration  returned  and  tore  it  down. 
Somehow  with  the  daylight  his  idea  of  turning 
King's  Evidence  against  the  tramp  had  weakened. 
He  no  longer  felt  sure. 

Mustn't  one  wait  and  be  asked  first  to  turn 
King's  Evidence? 

Suppose  they  said  he  had  merely  confessed.  .  .  . 

226 


THE  BATTLE  OF  CRAYMINSTER      227 

The  Crayminster  street  had  a  picturesque 
nutritious  look.  Half-way  down  it  was  the 
White  Hart  with  cyclist  club  signs  on  its  walls 
and  geraniums  over  a  white  porch,  and  beyond 
a  house  being  built  and  already  at  the  roofing 
pitch.  To  the  right  was  a  baker^s  shop  diffusing 
a  delicious  suggestion  of  buns  and  cake  and  to 
the  left  a  little  comfortable  sweetstuff  window 
and  a  glimpse  of  tables  and  a  board:  ^Teas.' 
Tea !  He  resolved  to  break  into  his  ninepence 
boldly  and  generously.  Very  likely  they  would 
boil  him  an  egg  for  a  penny  or  so.  Yet  on  the 
other  hand  if  he  just  had  three  or  four  buns,  soft 
new  buns.  He  hovered  towards  the  baker's 
shop  and  stopped  short.  That  bill  was  in  the 
window ! 

.  He  wheeled  about  sharply  and  went  into  the 
sweetstuff  shop  and  found  a  table  with  a  white 
cloth  and  a  motherly  little  woman  in  a  large  cap. 
Tea?  He  could  have  an  egg  and  some  thick 
bread  and  butter  and  a  cup  of  tea  for  fivepence. 
He  sat  down  respectfully  to  await  her  preparations. 

But  he  was  uneasy. 

He  knew  quite  well  that  she  would  ask  him 
questions.  For  that  he  was  prepared.  He  said 
he  was  walking  from  his  home  in  London  to 
Someport  to  save  the  fare.  "But  you're  so 
dirty!"  said  the  motherly  little  woman.  "I 
sent  my  luggage  by  post,  ma'm,  and  I  lost  my 
way  and  didn't  get  it.  And  I  don't  much  mind, 
ma'm,  if  you  don't.     Not  washing.  .  .  ." 

All  that  he  thought  he  did  quite  neatly.  But 
he  wished  there  was  not  that  bill  in  the  baker's 


228  BEALBY 

window  opposite  and  he  wished  he  hadn^t  quite 
such  a  hunted  feeling.  A  faint  claustrophobia 
affected  him.  He  felt  the  shop  might  be  a  trap. 
He  would  be  glad  to  get  into  the  open  again. 
Was  there  a  way  out  behind  if  for  example  a 
policeman  blocked  the  door?  He  hovered  to  the 
entrance  while  his  egg  was  boiling  and  then  when 
he  saw  a  large  fat  baker  surveying  the  world 
with  an  afternoon  placidity  upon  his  face,  he 
went  back  and  sat  by  the  table.  He  wondered 
if  the  baker  had  noted  him. 

He  had  finished  his  egg;  he  was  drinking  his 
tea  with  appreciative  noises,  when  he  discovered 
that  the  baker  had  noted  him.  Bealby^s  eyes,  at 
first  inanely  open  above  the  tilting  tea  cup,  were 
suddenly  riveted  on  something  that  was  going  on 
in  the  baker's  window.  From  where  he  sat  he 
could  see  that  detestable  bill,  and  then  slowly, 
feeling  about  for  it,  he  beheld  a  hand  and  a  floury 
sleeve.  The  bill  was  drawn  up  and  vanished  and 
then  behind  a  glass  shelf  of  fancy  bread  and  a 
glass  shelf  of  buns  something  pink  and  indistinct 
began  to  move  jerkily.  ...  It  was  a  human 
face  and  it  was  trying  to  peer  into  the  little  re- 
freshment shop  that  sheltered  Bealby.  .  .  . 

Bealby's  soul  went  faint. 

He  had  one  inadequate  idea.  "Might  I  go 
out,"  he  said,  "by  your  back  way?'' 

"There  isn't  a  back  way,"  said  the  motherly 
little  woman.     "There's  a  yard — ." 

"If  I  might,"  said  Bealby,  and  was  out  in  it. 

No  way  at  all !  High  walls  on  every  side.  He 
was  back  like  a  shot  in  the  shop,  and  now  the 


THE  BATTLE  OF  CRAYMINSTER      229 

baker  was  half-way  across  the  road.  "Five- 
pence,"  said  Bealby  and  gave  the  Httle  old  woman 
sixpence.     " Here/'  she  cried,  "  take  your  penny  ! '' 

He  did  not  wait.     He  darted  out  of  the  door. 

The  baker  was  all  over  the  way  of  escape.  He 
extended  arms  that  seemed  abnormally  long  and 
with  a  weak  cry  Bealby  found  himself  trapped. 
Trapped,  but  not  hopelessly.  He  knew  how  to  do 
it.  He  had  done  it  in  milder  forms  before,  but 
now  he  did  it  with  all  his  being.  Under  the 
diaphragm  of  the  baker  smote  Bealby's  hard 
little  head,  and  instantly  he  was  away  running 
up  the  quiet  sunny  street.  Man  when  he  as- 
sumed the  erect  attitude  made  a  hostage  of  his 
belly.  It  is  a  proverb  among  the  pastoral  Berbers 
of  the  Atlas  mountains  that  the  man  who  extends 
his  arms  in  front  of  an  angry  ram  is  a  fool. 

It  seemed  probable  to  Bealby  that  he  would  get 
away  up  the  street.  The  baker  was  engaged  in 
elaborately  falling  backward,  making  the  most  of 
sitting  down  in  the  road,  and  the  wind  had  been 
knocked  out  of  him  so  that  he  could  not  shout. 
He  emitted  "Stop  him!''  in  large  whispers. 
Away  ahead  there  were  only  three  builder's  men 
sitting  under  the  wall  beyond  the  White  Hart, 
consuming  tea  out  of  their  tea  cans.  But  the 
boy  who  was  trimming  the  top  of  the  tall  privet 
hedge  outside  the  doctor's  saw  the  assault  of 
the  baker  and  incontinently  uttered  the  shout 
that  the  baker  could  not.  Also  he  fell  off  his 
steps  with  great  alacrity  and  started  in  pursuit 
of  Bealby.  A  young  man  from  anywhere  — 
perhaps    the    grocer's    shop  —  also    started    for 


230  BEALBY 

Bealby.  But  the  workmen  were  slow  to  rise  to 
the  occasion.  Bealby  could  have  got  past  them. 
And  then,  abruptly  at  the  foot  of  the  street 
ahead  the  tramp  came  into  view,  a  battered  dis- 
concerting figure.  His  straw-coloured  hat  which 
had  recently  been  wetted  and  dried  in  the  sun 
was  a  swaying  mop.  The  sight  of  Bealby  seemed 
to  rouse  him  from  some  disagreeable  meditations. 
He  grasped  the  situation  with  a  terrible  quickness. 
Regardless  of  the  wisdom  of  the  pastoral  Berbers 
he  extended  his  arms  and  stood  prepared  to 
intercept. 

Bealby  thought  at  the  rate  of  a  hundred 
thoughts  to  the  minute.  He  darted  sideways 
and  was  up  the  ladder  and  among  the  beams  and 
rafters  of  the  unfinished  roof  before  the  pursuit 
had  more  than  begun.  "Here,  come  off  that," 
cried  the  foreman  builder^  only  now  joining  in 
the  hunt  with  any  sincerity.  He  came  across  the 
road  while  Bealby  regarded  him  wickedly  from 
the  rafters  above.  Then  as  the  good  man  made 
to  ascend  Bealby  got  him  neatly  on  the  hat, 
it  was  a  bowler  hat,  with  a  tile.  This  checked 
the  advance.  There  was  a  disposition  to  draw  a 
little  off  and  look  up  at  Bealby.  One  of  the 
younger  builders  from  the  opposite  sidewalk  got 
him  very  neatly  in  the  ribs  with  a  stone.  But  two 
other  shots  went  wide  and  Bealby  shifted  to  a 
more  covered  position  behind  the  chimney  stack. 

From  here,  however,  he  had  a  much  less  effective 
command  of  the  ladder,  and  he  perceived  that 
his  tenure  of  the  new  house  was  not  likely  to  be  a 
long  one. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  CRAYMINSTER       231 

Below,  men  parleyed.  "Who  is  'e?"  asked 
the  foreman  builder.  "Where'd  'e  come  from?^' 
"^E^s  a  brasted  little  thief/^  said  the  tramp. 
"'E's  one  of  the  wust  characters  on  the  road.'' 
The  baker  was  recovering  his  voice  now. 
"There's  a  reward  out  for  'im/'  he  said,  "and  'e 
butted  me  in  the  stummick.^' 

"'Ow  much  reward?"  asked  the  foreman 
builder. 

"Five  pound  for  the  man  who  catches  him." 

"'Ere !"  cried  the  foreman  builder  in  an  arrest- 
ing voice  to  the  tramp.  "Just  stand  away  from 
that  ladder.  .  .  ." 

Whatever  else  Bealby  might  or  might  not  be, 
one  thing  was  very  clear  about  him  and  that 
was  that  he  was  a  fugitive.  And  the  instinct 
of  humanity  is  to  pursue  fugitives.  Man  is  a 
hunting  animal,  enquiry  into  the  justice  of  a  case 
is  an  altogether  later  accretion  to  his  complex 
nature,  and  that  is  why,  whatever  you  are  or 
whatever  you  do,  you  should  never  let  people  get 
you  on  the  run.  There  is  a  joy  in  the  mere  fact 
of  hunting,  the  sight  of  a  scarlet  coat  and  a  hound 
will  brighten  a  whole  village,  and  now  Cray- 
minster  was  rousing  itself  Hke  a  sleeper  who  wakes 
to  sunshine  and  gay  music.  People  were  looking 
out  of  windows  and  coming  out  of  shops,  a  police- 
man appeared  and  heard  the  baker's  simple  story, 
a  brisk  hatless  young  man  in  a  white  apron  and 
with  a  pencil  behind  his  ear  became  prominent. 
Bealby,  peeping  over  the  ridge  of  the  roof,  looked 
a  thoroughly  dirty  and  unpleasant  little  creature 
to  all  these  people.     The  only  spark  of  human 


232  BEALBY 

sympathy  for  him  below  was  in  the  heart  of  the 
Httle  old  woman  in  the  cap  who  had  given  him 
his  breakfast.  She  surveyed  the  roof  of  the  new 
house  from  the  door  of  her  shop^  she  hoped  Bealby 
wouldn't  hurt  himself  up  there,  and  she  held  his 
penny  change  clutched  in  her  hand  in  her  apron 
pocket  with  a  vague  idea  that  perhaps  presently 
if  he  ran  past  she  could  very  quickly  give  it 
him. 


Considerable  delay  in  delivering  the  assault  on 
the  house  was  caused  by  the  foreman's  insistence 
that  he  alone  should  ascend  the  ladder  to  capture 
Bealby.  He  was  one  of  those  regular-featured 
men  with  large  heads  who  seem  to  have  inflexible 
backbones,  he  was  large  and  fair  and  full  with  a 
sweetish  chest  voice  and  in  all  his  movements 
authoritative  and  deliberate.  Whenever  he  made 
to  ascend  he  discovered  that  people  were  straying 
into  his  building,  and  he  had  to  stop  and  direct 
his  men  how  to  order  them  off.  Inside  his  large 
head  he  was  trying  to  arrange  everybody  to  cut 
off  Bealby's  line  of  retreat  without  risking  that 
anybody  but  himself  should  capture  the  fugitive. 
It  was  none  too  easy  and  it  knitted  his  brows. 
Meanwhile  Bealby  was  able  to  reconnoitre  the 
adjacent  properties  and  to  conceive  plans  for  a 
possible  line  of  escape.  He  also  got  a  few  tiles 
handy  against  when  the  rush  up  the  ladder  came. 
At  the  same  time  two  of  the  younger  workmen 
were  investigating  the  possibility  of  getting  at 
him  from  inside  the  house.     There  was  still  no 


THE  BATTLE  OF  CRAYMINSTER      233 

staircase,  but  there  were  ways  of  clambering. 
They  had  heard  about  the  reward  and  they  knew 
that  they  must  do  this  before  the  foreman  reaHzed 
their  purpose,  and  this  a  little  retarded  them. 
In  their  pockets  they  had  a  number  of  stones, 
ammunition  in  reserve,  if  it  came  again  to  throw- 
ing. 

Bealby  was  no  longer  fatigued  nor  depressed ; 
anxiety  for  the  future  was  lost  in  the  excitement 
of  the  present,  and  his  heart  told  him  that,  come 
what  might,  getting  on  to  the  roof  was  an  ex- 
traordinarily good  dodge. 

And  if  only  he  could  bring  off  a  certain  jump  he 
had  in  mind,  there  were  other  dodges  —   ... 

In  the  village  street  an  informal  assembly  of 
leading  citizens,  a  little  recovered  now  from  their 
first  nervousness  about  flying  tiles,  discussed 
the  problem  of  Bealby.  There  was  Mumby,  the 
draper  and  vegetarian,  with  the  bass  voice  and 
the  big  black  beard.  He  advocated  the  fire 
engine.  He  was  one  of  the  volunteer  fire  brigade 
and  never  so  happy  as  when  he  was  wearing 
his  helmet.  He  had  come  out  of  his  shop  at 
the  shouting.  Schocks  the  butcher,  and  his  boy 
were  also  in  the  street.  Schocks's  yard,  with  its 
heap  of  manure  and  fodder,  bounded  the  new  house 
on  the  left.  Rymell  the  vet  emerged  from  the 
billiard  room  of  the  White  Hart,  and  with  his  head 
a  little  on  one  side  was  watching  Bealby  and 
replying  attentively  to  the  baker,  who  was  asking 
him  a  number  of  questions  that  struck  him  as 
irrelevant.  All  the  White  Hart  people  were  in 
the  street. 


234  BEALBY 

"I  suppose,  Mr.  Rymell/^  said  the  baker, 
"there's  a  mort  of  dangerous  things  in  a  man's 
belly  round  about  'is  Stummick?" 

"Tiles/'  said  Mr.  Rymell.  "Loose  bricks.  It 
wouldn't  do  if  he  started  dropping  those." 

"I  was  saying,  Mr.  Rymell,"  said  the  baker, 
after  a  pause  for  digestion,  "is  a  man  likely 
to  be  injured  badly  by  a  Blaw  in  his  stummick?" 

Mr.  Rymell  stared  at  him  for  a  moment  with 
unresponsive  eyes.  "More  likely  to  get  you  in 
the  head,"  he  said,  and  then,  "Here!  What's 
that  fool  of  a  carpenter  going  to  do  ?" 

The  tramp  was  hovering  on  the  outskirts  of 
the  group  of  besiegers,  vindictive  but  dispirited. 
He  had  been  brought  to  from  his  fit  and  given  a 
shilling  by  the  old  gentleman,  but  he  was  dread- 
fully wet  between  his  shirt  —  he  wore  a  shirt, 
under  three  waistcoats  and  a  coat  —  and  his 
skin,  because  the  old  gentleman's  method  of 
revival  had  been  to  syringe  him  suddenly  with 
cold  water.  It  had  made  him  weep  with  astonish- 
ment and  misery.  Now  he  saw  no  advantage 
in  claiming  Bealby  publicly.  His  part,  he  felt, 
was  rather  a  waiting  one.  What  he  had  to  say 
to  Bealby  could  be  best  said  without  the  assistance 
of  a  third  person.  And  he  wanted  to  understand 
more  of  this  talk  about  a  reward.  If  there  was  a 
reward  out  for  Bealby  — 

"That's  not  a  bad  dodge  !"  said  Rymell,  chang- 
ing his  opinion  of  the  foreman  suddenly  as  that 
individual  began  his  ascent  of  the  ladder  with 
a  bricklayer's  hod  carried  shield-wise  above  his 
head.     He  went  up  with    difficulty  and  slowly 


THE  BATTLE  OF  CRAYMINSTER      235 

because  of  the  extreme  care  he  took  to  keep  his 
head  protected.  But  no  tiles  came.  Bealby 
had  discovered  a  more  dangerous  attack  de- 
veloping inside  the  house  and  was  already  in 
retreat  down  the  other  side  of  the  building. 

He  did  a  leap  that  might  have  hurt  him  badly, 
taking  off  from  the  corner  of  the  house  and 
jumping  a  good  twelve  feet  on  to  a  big  heap  of 
straw  in  the  butcher^s  yard.  He  came  down  on  all 
fours  and  felt  a  little  jarred  for  an  instant,  and 
then  he  was  up  again  and  had  scrambled  up  by  a 
heap  of  manure  to  the  top  of  the  butcher's  wall. 
He  was  over  that  and  into  Maccullum's  yard 
next  door  before  anyone  in  the  front  of  the  new 
house  had  realized  that  he  was  in  flight.  Then  one 
of  the  two  workmen  who  had  been  coming  up 
inside  the  house  saw  him  from  the  oblong  opening 
that  was  some  day  to  be  the  upstairs  bedroom 
window,  and  gave  tongue. 

It  was  thirty  seconds  later,  and  after  Bealby 
had  vanished  from  the  butcher's  wall  that  the 
foreman,  still  clinging  to  his  hod,  appeared  over 
the  ridge  of  the  roof.  At  the  workman's  shout 
the  policeman,  who  with  the  preventive  disposi- 
tion of  his  profession,  had  hitherto  been  stopping 
anyone  from  coming  into  the  unfinished  house, 
turned  about  and  ran  out  into  its  brick  and 
plaster  and  timber-littered  backyard,  whereupon 
the  crowd  in  the  street  realizing  that  the  quarry 
had  gone  away  and  no  longer  restrained,  came 
pouring  partly  through  the  house  and  partly 
round  through  the  butcher's  gate  into  his  yard. 

Bealby  had  had  a  check. 


236  BEALBY 

He  had  relied  upon  the  tarred  felt  roof  of  the 
mushroom  shed  of  MaccuUum  the  tailor  and 
breeches-maker  to  get  him  to  the  wall  that  gave 
upon  Mr.  Benshaw's  strawberry  fields  and  he 
had  not  seen  from  his  roof  above  the  ramshackle 
glazed  outhouse  which  Maccullum  called  his 
workroom  and  in  which  four  industrious  tailors 
were  working  in  an  easy  dishabille.  The  roof  of 
the  shed  was  the  merest  tarred  touchwood,  it 
had  perished  as  felt  long  ago,  it  collapsed  under 
Bealby,  he  went  down  into  a  confusion  of  mush- 
rooms and  mushroom-bed,  he  blundered  out 
trailing  mushrooms  and  spawn  and  rich  matter, 
he  had  a  nine-foot  wall  to  negotiate  and  only 
escaped  by  a  hair's-breadth  from  the  clutch  of  a 
little  red-slippered  man  who  came  dashing  out 
from  the  workroom.  But  by  a  happy  use  of  the 
top  of  the  dustbin  he  did  just  get  away  over  the 
wall  in  time,  and  the  red-slippered  tailor,  who 
was  not  good  at  walls,  was  left  struggling  to  imi- 
tate an  ascent  that  had  looked  easy  enough  until 
he  came  to  try  it. 

For  a  moment  the  little  tailor  struggled  alone 
and  then  both  Maccullum's  little  domain  and 
the  butcher's  yard  next  door  and  the  little  patch 
of  space  behind  the  new  house,  were  violently 
injected  with  a  crowd  of  active  people,  all  con- 
fusedly on  the  Bealby  trail.  Someone,  he  never 
knew  who,  gave  the  little  tailor  a  leg-up  and  then 
his  red  slippers  twinkled  over  the  wall  and  he  was 
leading  the  hunt  into  the  market  gardens  of  Mr. 
Benshaw.  A  collarless  colleague  in  list  slippers 
and  conspicuous  braces  followed.     The  policeman, 


THE  BATTLE  OF  CRAYMINSTER      237 

after  he  had  completed  the  wreck  of  Mr.  Mac- 
cullum's  mushroom  shed,  came  next,  and  then 
Mr.  Maccullum,  with  no  sense  of  times  and 
seasons,  anxious  to  have  a  discussion  at  once  upon 
the  question  of  this  damage.  Mr.  Maccullum 
was  out  of  breath  and  he  never  got  further  with 
this  projected  conversation  than  "Here!'^  This 
he  repeated  several  times  as  opportunity  seemed 
to  offer.  The  remaining  tailors  got  to  the  top  of 
the  wall  more  sedately  with  the  help  of  the  Mac- 
cullum kitchen  steps  and  dropped;  Mr.  Schocks 
followed,  breathing  hard,  and  then  a  fresh  jet  of 
humanity  came  squirting  into  the  gardens  through 
a  gap  in  the  fence  at  the  back  of  the  building  site. 
This  was  led  by  the  young  workman  who  had 
first  seen  Bealby  go  away.  Hard  behind  him  came 
Rymell,  the  vet,  the  grocer^s  assistant,  the  doctor's 
page-boy  and,  less  briskly,  the  baker.  Then  the 
tramp.  Then  Mumby  and  Schocks's  boy.  Then 
a  number  of  other  people.  The  seeking  of  Bealby 
had  assumed  the  dimensions  of  a  Hue  and  Cry. 

The  foreman  with  the  large  head  and  the 
upright  back  was  still  on  the  new  roof;  he  was 
greatly  distressed  at  the  turn  things  had  taken 
and  shouted  his  claims  to  a  major  share  in  the 
capture  of  Bealby,  mixed  with  his  opinions  of 
Bealby  and  a  good  deal  of  mere  swearing,  to  a 
sunny  but  unsympathetic  sky.  .  .  . 

§3 

Mr.  Benshaw  was  a  small  holder,  a  sturdy 
English   yeoman    of   the  new    school.      He  was 


238  BEALBY 

an  Anti-Socialist,  a  self-helper,  an  independent- 
spirited  man.  He  had  a  steadily  growing  banking 
account  and  a  plain  but  sterile  wife,  and  he  was 
dark  in  complexion  and  so  erect  in  his  bearing  as 
to  seem  a  little  to  lean  forward.  Usually  he 
wore  a  sort  of  grey  gamekeeper's  suit  with  brown 
gaiters  (except  on  Sundays  when  the  coat  was 
black),  he  was  addicted  to  bowler  hats  that  ac- 
corded ill  with  his  large  grave  grey-coloured  face, 
and  he  was  altogether  a  very  sound  strong  man. 
His  bowler  hats  did  but  accentuate  that.  He 
had  no  time  for  vanities,  even  the  vanity  of  dress- 
ing consistently.  He  went  into  the  nearest  shop 
and  just  bought  the  cheapest  hat  he  could,  and 
so  he  got  hats  designed  for  the  youthful  and 
giddy,  hats  with  flighty  crowns  and  flippant 
bows  and  amorous  brims  that  undulated  attrac- 
tively to  set  off  flushed  and  foolish  young  faces. 
It  made  his  unrelenting  face  look  rather  like  the 
Puritans  under  the  Stuart  monarchy. 

He  was  a  horticulturist  rather  than  a  farmer. 
He  had  begun  his  career  in  cheap  lodgings  with  a 
field  of  early  potatoes  and  cabbages,  supple- 
mented by  employment,  but  with  increased 
prosperity  his  area  of  cultivation  had  extended 
and  his  methods  intensified.  He  now  grew  con- 
siderable quantities  of  strawberries,  raspberries, 
celery,  seakale,  asparagus,  early  peas,  late  peas, 
and  onions,  and  consumed  more  stable  manure 
than  any  other  cultivator  within  ten  miles  of 
Crayminster.  He  was  beginning  to  send  cut 
flowers  to  London.  He  had  half  an  acre  of  glass 
and  he  was  rapidly  extending  it.     He  had  built 


THE  BATTLE  OF  CRAYMINSTER       239 

himself  a  cottage  on  lines  of  austere  economy, 
and  a  bony-looking  dwelling  house  for  some  of 
his  men.  He  also  owned  a  number  of  useful 
sheds  of  which  tar  and  corrugated  iron  were  con- 
spicuous features.  His  home  was  furnished  with 
the  utmost  respectability,  and  notably  joykss 
even  in  a  countryside  where  gaiety  is  regarded 
as  an  impossible  quality  in  furniture.  He  was 
already  in  a  small  local  way  a  mortgagee.  Good 
fortune  had  not  turned  the  head  of  Mr.  Benshaw 
nor  robbed  him  of  the  feeling  that  he  was  a 
particularly  deserving  person,  entitled  to  a  prefer- 
ential treatment  from  a  country  which  in  his 
plain  unsparing  way  he  felt  that  he  enriched. 

In  many  ways  he  thought  that  the  country  was 
careless  of  his  needs.  And  in  none  more  careless 
than  in  the  laws  relating  to  trespass.  Across  his 
dominions  ran  three  footpaths,  and  one  of  these 
led  to  the  public  elementary  school.  That  he 
should  have  to  maintain  this  latter  —  and  if  he 
did  not  keep  it  in  good  order  the  children  spread 
out  and  made  parallel  tracks  among  his  culti- 
vations —  seemed  to  him  a  thing  almost  intoler- 
ably unjust.  He  mended  it  with  cinders,  acety- 
lene refuse,  which  he  believed  and  hoped  to  be 
thoroughly  bad  for  boots,  and  a  pecuHarly  slimy 
chalky  clay,  and  he  put  on  a  board  at  each  end 
"Keep  to  the  footpaths,  Trespassers  will  be 
prosecuted,  by  Order, '^  which  he  painted  himself 
to  save  expense  when  he  was  confined  indoors 
by  the  influenza.  Still  more  unjust  it  would  be, 
he  felt,  for  him  to  spend  money  upon  effective 
fencing,  and  he  could  find  no  fencing  cheap  enough 


240  BEALBY 

and  ugly  enough  and  painful  enough  and  im- 
possible enough  to  express  his  feelings  in  the 
matter.  Every  day  the  children  streamed  to 
and  fro,  marking  how  his  fruits  ripened  and 
his  produce  became  more  esculent.  And  other 
people  pursued  these  tracks  ;  many,  Mr.  Benshaw 
was  convinced,  went  to  and  fro  through  his  orderly 
crops  who  had  no  business  whatever,  no  honest 
business,  to  pass  that  way.  Either,  he  concluded, 
they  did  it  to  annoy  him,  or  they  did  it  to  injure 
him.  This  continual  invasion  aroused  in  Mr. 
Benshaw  all  that  stern  anger  against  unrighteous- 
ness latent  in  our  race  which  more  than  any  other 
single  force  has  made  America  and  the  Empire 
what  they  are  to-day.  Once  already  he  had 
been  robbed  —  a  raid  upon  his  raspberries  — 
and  he  felt  convinced  that  at  any  time  he  might 
be  robbed  again.  He  had  made  representations 
to  the  local  authority  to  get  the  footpath  closed, 
but  in  vain.  They  defended  themselves  with  the 
paltry  excuse  that  the  children  would  then  have 
to  go  nearly  a  mile  round  to  the  school. 

It  was  not  only  the  tyranny  of  these  footpaths 
that  offended  Mr.  Benshaw's  highly  developed 
sense  of  Individual  Liberty.  All  round  his  rather 
straggling  dominions  his  neighbours  displayed  an 
ungenerous  indisposition  to  maintain  their  fences 
to  his  satisfaction.  In  one  or  two  places,  in  aban- 
donment of  his  clear  rights  in  the  matter,  he  had, 
at  his  own  expense,  supplemented  these  lax  de- 
fences with  light  barbed  wire  defences.  But  it  was 
not  a  very  satisfactory  sort  of  barbed  wire.  He 
wanted  barbed  wire  with  extra  spurs  like  a  fighting 


THE  BATTLE  OF  CRAYMINSTER      241 

cock;  he  wanted  barbed  wire  that  would  start 
out  after  nightfall  and  attack  passers-by.  This 
boundary  trouble  was  universal ;  in  a  way  it 
was  worse  than  the  footpaths  which  after  all 
only  affected  the  Cage  Fields  where  his  straw- 
berries grew.  Except  for  the  yard  and  garden 
walls  of  Maccullum  and  Schocks  and  that  side, 
there  was  not  really  a  satisfactory  foot  of  en- 
closure all  round  Mr.  Benshaw.  On  the  one  side 
rats  and  people's  dogs  and  scratching  cats  came 
in,  on  the  other  side  rabbits.  The  rabbits  were 
intolerable  and  recently  there  had  been  a  rise  of 
nearly  thirty  per  cent  in  the  price  of  wire  netting. 

Mr.  Benshaw  wanted  to  hurt  rabbits ;  he  did 
not  want  simply  to  kill  them,  he  wanted  so  to  kill 
them  as  to  put  the  fear  of  death  into  the  burrows. 
He  wanted  to  kill  them  so  that  scared  little  furry 
survivors  with  their  tails  as  white  as  ghosts  would 
go  lolloping  home  and  say,  "I  say,  you  chaps, 
we'd  better  shift  out  of  this.  We're  up  against  a 
Strong  Determined  Man.  .  .  ." 

I  have  made  this  lengthy  statement  of  Mr. 
Benshaw's  economic  and  moral  difficulties  in 
order  that  the  reader  should  understand  the 
peculiar  tension  that  already  existed  upon  this 
side  of  Crayminster.  It  has  been  necessary  to 
do  so  now  because  in  a  few  seconds  there  will 
be  no  further  opportunity  for  such  preparations. 

There  had  been  trouble,  I  may  add  very  hastily, 
about  the  shooting  of  Mr.  Benshaw's  gun ;  a 
shower  of  small  shot  had  fallen  out  of  the  twilight 
upon  the  umbrella  and  basket  of  old  Mrs.  Fro- 
bisher.     And  only  a  week  ago  an  unsympathetic 

B 


242  BEALBY 

bench  after  a  hearing  of  over  an  hour  and  in  the 
face  of  overwhelming  evidence  had  refused  to 
convict  little  Lucy  Mumby,  aged  eleven,  of 
stealing  fruit  from  Mr.  Benshaw's  fields.  She 
had  been  caught  red-handed.  .  .  . 

At  the  very  moment  that^  Bealby  was  butting 
the  baker  in  the  stomach,  Mr.  Benshaw  was  just 
emerging  from  his  austere  cottage  after  a  whole- 
some but  inexpensive  high  tea  in  which  he  had 
finished  up  two  left-over  cold  sausages,  and  he 
was  considering  very  deeply  the  financial  side  of 
a  furious  black  fence  that  he  had  at  last  de- 
cided should  pen  in  the  school  children  from 
further  depredations.  It  should  be  of  splintery 
tarred  deal,  and  high,  with  well-pointed  tops 
studded  with  sharp  nails,  and  he  believed  that 
by  making  the  path  only  two  feet  wide,  a  real 
saving  of  ground  for  cultivation  might  be  made 
and  a  very  considerable  discomfort  for  the  public 
arranged,  to  compensate  for  his  initial  expense. 
The  thought  of  a  narrow  lane  which  would  in 
winter  be  characterized  by  an  excessive  slimness 
and  from  which  there  would  be  no  lateral  escape 
was  pleasing  to  a  mind  by  no  means  absolutely 
restricted  to  considerations  of  pounds,  shillings 
and  pence.  In  his  hand  after  his  custom  he  carried 
a  hoe,  on  the  handle  of  which  feet  were  marked, 
so  that  it  was  available  not  only  for  destroying 
the  casual  weed  but  also  for  purposes  of  measure- 
ment. With  this  he  now  checked  his  estimate  and 
found  that  here  he  would  reclaim  as  much  as  three 
feet  of  trodden  waste,  here  a  full  two. 

Absorbed  in  these  calculations,  he  heeded  little 


THE  BATTLE  OF  CRAYMINSTER      243 

the  growth  of  a  certain  clamour  from  the  backs 
of  the  houses  bordering  on  the  High  Street.  It 
did  not  appear  to  concern  him  and  Mr.  Benshaw 
made  it  almost  ostentatiously  his  rule  to  mind  his 
own  business.  His  eyes  remained  fixed  on  the 
lumpy,  dusty,  sunbaked  track,  that  with  an  in- 
telligent foresight  he  saw  already  transformed  into 
a  deterrent  slough  of  despond  for  the  young.  .  .  . 

Then  quite  suddenly  the  shouting  took  on  a  new 
note.  He  glanced  over  his  shoulder  almost  in- 
voluntarily and  discovered  that  after  all  this  up- 
roar was  his  business.  Amazingly  his  business. 
His  mouth  assumed  a  Cromwellian  fierceness. 
His  grip  tightened  on  his  hoe.  That  anyone 
should  dare  !     But  it  was  impossible ! 

His  dominions  were  being  invaded  with  a  pe- 
culiar boldness  and  violence. 

Ahead  of  everyone  else  and  running  with  wild 
wavings  of  the  arms  across  his  strawberries  was 
a  small  and  very  dirty  little  boy.  He  impressed 
Mr.  Benshaw  merely  as  a  pioneer.  Some  thirty 
yards  behind  him  was  a  little  collarless,  short- 
sleeved  man  in  red  slippers  running  with  great 
effrontery  and  behind  him  another  still  more 
denuded  lunatic,  also  in  list  slippers  and  with 
braces  —  braces  of  inconceivable  levity.  And 
then  Wiggs,  the  policeman,  hotly  followed  by  Mr. 
MaccuUum.  Then  more  distraught  tailors  and 
Schocks  the  butcher.  But  a  louder  shout  heralded 
the  main  attack,  and  Mr.  Benshaw  turned  his 
eyes  —  already  they  were  slightly  blood-shot  eyes 
—  to  the  right,  and  saw,  pouring  through  the 
broken  hedge,  a  disorderly  crowd,  Rymell  whom 


244  BEALBY 

he  had  counted  his  friend,  the  grocer^s  assistant, 
the  doctor^s  boy,  some  strangers  —  Mumby  ! 

At  the  sight  of  Mumby,  Mr.  Benshaw  leapt  at 
a  conclusion.  He  saw  it  all.  The  whole  place 
was  rising  against  him  ;  they  were  asserting  some 
infernal  new  right-of-way.  Mumby  —  Mumby 
had  got  them  to  do  it.  All  the  fruits  of  fifteen 
years  of  toil,  all  the  care  and  accumulation  of  Mr. 
Benshaw^s  prime,  were  to  be  trampled  and  torn 
to  please  a  draper's  spite !  .  .  . 

Sturdy  yeoman  as  Mr.  Benshaw  was  he  resolved 
instantly  to  fight  for  his  liberties.  One  moment 
he  paused  to  blow  the  powerful  police  whistle 
he  carried  in  his  pocket  and  then  rushed  forward 
in  the  direction  of  the  hated  Mumby,  the  leader 
of  trespassers,  the  parent  and  abetter  and  de- 
fender of  the  criminal  Lucy.  He  took  the  hurry- 
ing panting  man  almost  unawares,  and  with  one 
wild  sweep  of  the  hoe  felled  him  to  the  earth. 
Then  he  staggered  about  and  smote  again,  but  not 
quite  in  time  to  get  the  head  of  Mr.  Rymell. 

This  whistle  he  carried  was  part  of  a  systematic 
campaign  he  had  developed  against  trespassers 
and  fruit  stealers.  He  and  each  of  his  assistants 
carried  one,  and  at  the  first  shrill  note  —  it  was 
his  rule  —  everyone  seized  on  every  weapon 
that  was  handy  and  ran  to  pursue  and  capture. 
All  his  assistants  were  extraordinarily  prompt 
in  responding  to  these  alarms,  which  were  often 
the  only  break  in  long  days  of  strenuous  and 
strenuously  directed  toil.  So  now  with  an  as- 
tonishing promptitude  and  animated  faces  men 
appeared  from  sheds  and  greenhouses  and  distant 


THE  BATTLE  OF  CRAYMINSTER      245 

patches  of  culture,  hastening  to  the  assistance  of 
their  dour  employer. 

It  says  much  for  the  amiable  relations  that 
existed  between  employers  and  employed  in  those 
days  before  Syndicalism  became  the  creed  of 
the  younger  workers  that  they  did  hurry  to  his 
assistance. 

But  many  rapid  things  were  to  happen  before 
they  came  into  action.  For  first  a  strange 
excitement  seized  upon  the  tramp.  A  fantastic 
delusive  sense  of  social  rehabilitation  took  pos- 
session of  his  soul.  Here  he  was  pitted  against 
a  formidable  hoe-wielding  man,  who  for  some  in- 
scrutable reason  was  resolved  to  cover  the  re- 
treat of  Bealby.  And  all  the  world,  it  seemed, 
was  with  the  tramp  and  against  this  hoe-wielder. 
All  the  tremendous  forces  of  human  society, 
against  which  the  tramp  had  struggled  for 
so  many  years,  whose  power  he  knew  and 
feared  as  only  the  outlaw  can,  had  suddenly 
come  into  line  with  him.  Across  the  strawberries 
to  the  right  there  was  even  a  policeman  hastening 
to  join  the  majority,  a  policeman  closely  followed 
by  a  tradesman  of  the  blackest,  most  respectable 
quality.  The  tramp  had  a  vision  of  himself  as 
a  respectable  man  heroically  leading  respect- 
able people  against  outcasts.  He  dashed  the 
lank  hair  from  his  eyes,  waved  his  arms  laterally, 
and  then  with  a  loud  strange  cry  flung  himself 
towards  Mr.  Benshaw.  Two  pairs  of  super- 
imposed coat-tails  flapped  behind  him.  And 
then  the  hoe  whistled  through  the  air  and  the 
tramp  fell  to  the  ground  like  a  sack. 


246  BEALBY 

But  now  Schocks^s  boy  had  grasped  his  oppor- 
tunity. He  had  been  working  discreetly  round 
behind  Mr.  Benshaw,  and  as  the  hoe  smote  he 
leapt  upon  that  hero's  back  and  seized  him  about 
the  neck  with  both  arms  and  bore  him  staggering 
to  the  ground,  and  Rymell,  equally  quick,  and 
used  to  the  tackling  of  formidable  creatures,  had 
snatched  and  twisted  away  the  hoe  and  grappled 
Mr.  Benshaw  almost  before  he  was  down.  The 
first  of  Mr.  Benshaw's  helpers  to  reach  the  fray 
found  the  issue  decided,  his  master  held  down 
conclusively  and  a  growing  circle  trampling  down 
a  wide  area  of  strawberry  plants  about  the  pant- 
ing group.  .  .  . 

Mr.  Mumby,  more  frightened  than  hurt,  was 
already  sitting  up,  but  the  tramp  with  a  glowing 
wound  upon  his  cheekbone  and  an  expression  of 
astonishment  in  his  face,  lay  low  and  pawed  the 
earth. 

"What  d'you  mean,"  gasped  Mr.  Rymell, 
"hitting  people  about  with  that  hoe?" 

"What  d'you  mean,"  groaned  Mr.  Benshaw, 
"running  across  my  strawberries?" 

"We  were  going  after  that  boy." 

"Pounds  and  pounds'  worth  of  damage.  Mis- 
chief and  wickedness.  .  .  .     Mumby!" 

Mr.  Rymell,  suddenly  realizing  the  true  values 
of  the  situation,  released  Mr.  Benshaw's  hands 
and  knelt  up.  "Look  here,  Mr.  Benshaw,"  he 
said,  "you  seem  to  be  under  the  impression  we 
are  trespassing." 

Mr.  Benshaw,  struggling  into  a  sitting  position 
was  understood  to  enquire  with  some  heat  what 


THE  BATTLE  OF  CRAYMINSTER      247 

Mr.  Rymell  called  it.  Schocks^s  boy  picked  up 
the  hat  with  the  erotic  brim  and  handed  it  to  the 
horticulturist  silently  and  respectfully. 

"We  were  not  trespassing/'  said  Mr.  Rymell. 
'*We  were  following  up  that  boy.  He  was  tres- 
passing, if  you  like.  .  .  .  By  the  bye,  —  where 
is  the  boy?     Has  anyone  caught  him?'' 

At  the  question,  attention  which  had  been  fo- 
cussed  upon  Mr.  Benshaw  and  his  hoe,  came  round. 
Across  the  field  in  the  direction  of  the  sunlit 
half  acre  of  glass  the  little  tailor  was  visible 
standing  gingerly  and  picking  up  his  red  slippers 
for  the  third  time  —  they  would  come  off  in  that 
loose  good  soil,  everybody  else  had  left  the  trail 
to  concentrate  on  Mr.  Benshaw  —  and  Bealby  — . 
Bealby  was  out  of  sight.  He  had  escaped,  clean 
got  away. 

"What  boy?"  asked  Mr.  Benshaw. 

"Ferocious  little  beast  who's  fought  us  like  a 
rat.  Been  committing  all  sorts  of  crimes  about 
the  country.     Five  pounds  reward  for  him." 

"Fruit  stealing?"  asked  Mr.  Benshaw. 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Rymell,  chancing  it. 

Mr.  Benshaw  reflected  slowly.  His  eyes  sur- 
veyed his  trampled  crops.  "Gooo  Lord!^^ 
he  cried.  "Look  at  those  strawberries!"  His 
voice  gathered  violence.  "And  that  lout  there !" 
he  said.  "Why  !  —  he's  lying  on  them  !  That's 
the  brute  who  went  for  me !" 

"You  got  him  a  pretty  tidy  'one  side  the 
head!"  said  Maccullum. 

The  tramp  rolled  over  on  some  fresh  straw- 
berries and  groaned  pitifully. 


248  BEALBY 

"He's  hurt/'  said  Mr.  Mumby. 

The  tramp  flopped  and  lay  still. 

"Get  some  water!"  said  Rymell,  standing  up. 

At  the  word  water,  the  tramp  started  convul- 
sively, rolled  over  and  sat  up  with  a  dazed  ex- 
pression. 

"No  water/'  he  said  weakly.  "No  more 
water/'  and  then  catching  Mr.  Benshaw's  eye 
he  got  rather  quickly  to  his  feet. 

Everybody  who  wasn't  already  standing  was 
getting  up,  and  everyone  now  was  rather  care- 
fully getting  himself  off  any  strawberry  plant  he 
had  chanced  to  find  himself  smashing  in  the 
excitement  of  the  occasion. 

"That's  the  man  that  started  in  on  me,"  said 
Mr.  Benshaw.  "What's  he  doing  here?  Who 
is  he?" 

"Who  are  you,  my  man?  What  business  have 
you  to  be  careering  over  this  field?"  asked  Mr. 
Rymell. 

"I  was  only  'elping,"  said  the  tramp. 

"Nice  help,"  said  Mr.  Benshaw. 

"I  thought  that  boy  was  a  thief  or  something." 

"And  so  you  made  a  rush  at  me." 

"  I  didn't  exactly  —  sir  —  I  thought  you  was 
'elping  'im." 

"You  be  off,  anyhow,"  said  Mr.  Benshaw. 
"Whatever  you  thought." 

"Yes,  you  be  off!"  said  Mr.  Rymell. 

"That's  the  way,  my  man,"  said  Mr.  Benshaw. 
"We  haven't  any  jobs  for  you.  The  sooner  we 
have  you  out  of  it  the  better  for  everyone.  Get 
right  on  to  the  path  and  keep  it."     And  with  a 


THE  BATTLE  OF  CRAYMINSTER      249 

desolating  sense  of  exclusion  the  tramp  withdrew. 
"There's  pounds  and  pounds'  worth  of  damage 
here,"  said  Mr.  Benshaw.  "This  job'll  cost  me 
a  pretty  penny.  Look  at  them  berries  there. 
Why,  they  ain't  fit  for  jam !  And  all  done  by 
one  confounded  boy."  An  evil  light  came  into 
Mr.  Benshaw's  eyes.  "You  leave  him  to  me  and 
my  chaps.  If  he's  gone  up  among  those  sheds 
there  —  we'll  settle  with  him.  Anyhow  there's 
no  reason  why  my  fruit  should  be  trampled  worse 
than  it  has  been.     Fruit  stealer,  you  say,  he  is?" 

"They  live  on  the  country  this  time  of  year," 
said  Mr.  Mumby. 

"And  catch  them  doing  a  day's  work  picking  !" 
said  Mr.  Benshaw.     "I  know  the  sort." 

"There's  a  reward  of  five  pounds  for  'im  al- 
ready," said  the  baker.  .  .  . 

§4 

You  perceive  how  humanitarian  motives  may 
sometimes  defeat  their  own  end,  and  how  little 
Lady  Laxton's  well-intentioned  handbills  were 
serving  to  rescue  Bealby.  Instead,  they  were 
turning  him  into  a  scared  and  hunted  animal. 
In  spite  of  its  manifest  impossibility  he  was  con- 
vinced that  the  reward  and  this  pursuit  had  to  do 
with  his  burglary  of  the  poultry  farm,  and  that 
his  capture  would  be  but  the  preliminary  to  prison, 
trial  and  sentence.  His  one  remaining  idea  was 
to  get  away.  But  his  escape  across  the  market 
gardens  had  left  him  so  blown  and  spent,  that  he 
was  obliged  to  hide  up  for  a  time  in  this  perilous 


250  BEALBY 

neighbourhood,  before  going  on.  He  saw  a  dis- 
used-looking  shed  in  the  lowest  corner  of  the 
gardens  behind  the  greenhouses,  and  by  doubhng 
sharply  along  a  hedge  he  got  to  it  unseen.  It  was 
not  disused  —  nothing  in  Mr.  Benshaw^s  posses- 
sion ever  was  absolutely  disused,  but  it  was  filled 
with  horticultural  lumber,  with  old  calcium  car- 
bide tins,  with  broken  wheelbarrows  and  damaged 
ladders  awaiting  repair,  with  some  ragged  wheel- 
ing planks  and  surplus  rolls  of  roofing  felt.  At 
the  back  were  some  unhinged  shed  doors  leaning 
against  the  wall,  and  between  them  Bealby  tucked 
himself  neatly  and  became  still,  glad  of  any 
respite  from  the  chase. 

He  would  wait  for  twilight  and  then  get  away 
across  the  meadows  at  the  back  and  then  go  — 
He  didn^t  know  whither.  And  now  he  had  no 
confidence  in  the  wild  world  any  more.  A  qualm 
of  home-sickness  for  the  compact  little  gardener's 
cottage  at  Shonts,  came  to  Bealby.  Why,  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  wasn't  he  there  now  ? 

He  ought  to  have  tried  more  at  Shonts. 

He  ought  to  have  minded  what  they  told  him 
and  not  have  taken  up  a  toasting  fork  against 
Thomas.  Then  he  wouldn't  now  have  been  a 
hunted  burglar  with  a  reward  of  five  pounds  on 
his  head  and  nothing  in  his  pocket  but  threepence 
and  a  pack  of  greasy  playing  cards,  a  box  of  sul- 
phur matches  and  various  objectionable  sundries, 
none  of  which  were  properly  his  own. 

If  only  he  could  have  his  time  over  again ! 

Such  wholesome  reflections  occupied  his 
thoughts  until  the  onset  of  the  dusk  stirred  him 


THE  BATTLE  OF  CRAYMINSTER      251 

to  departure.  He  crept  out  of  his  hiding-place 
and  stretched  his  limbs  which  had  got  very  stiff, 
and  was  on  the  point  of  reconnoitring  from  the 
door  of  the  shed  when  he  became  aware  of  stealthy- 
footsteps  outside. 

With  the  quickness  of  an  animal  he  shot  back 
into  his  hiding-place.  The  footsteps  had  halted. 
For  a  long  time  it  seemed  the  unseen  waited, 
listening.     Had  he  heard  Bealby  ? 

Then  someone  fumbled  with  the  door  of  the 
shed ;  it  opened,  and  there  was  a  long  pause  of 
cautious  inspection. 

Then  the  unknown  had  shuffled  into  the  shed 
and  sat  down  on  a  heap  of  matting. 

^^Gaw .'"  said  a  voice. 

The  tramp's ! 

"If  ever  I  struck  a  left-handed  Mascot  it  was 
that  boy,''  said  the  tramp.     "The  little  swine !^' 

For  the  better  part  of  two  minutes  he  went  on 
from  this  mild  beginning  to  a  descriptive  elabora- 
tion of  Bealby.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life 
Bealby  learnt  how  unfavourable  was  the  impres- 
sion he  might  leave  on  a  fellow  creature's  mind. 

"Took  even  my  matches!"  cried  the  tramp, 
and  tried  this  statement  over  with  variations. 

"First  that  old  fool  with  his  syringe!"  The 
tramp's  voice  rose  in  angry  protest.  "Here's  a 
chap  dying  epilepsy  on  your  doorstep  and  all 
you  can  do  is  to  squirt  cold  water  at  him !  Cold 
water !  Why  you  might  kill  a  man  doing  that ! 
And  then  say  you'd  thought'd  bring  'im  rand ! 
Bring  'im  rand !  You  be  jolly  glad  I  didn't 
stash  your  silly  face  in.     You  [misbegotten]^  old 


252  BEALBY 

fool !  What's  a  shilling  for  wetting  a  man  to  'is 
skin.  Wet  through  I  was.  Running  inside  my 
shirt,  —  dripping.  .  .  .  And  then  the  blooming 
boy  clears ! 

"7  don't  know  what  boys  are  coming  to!" 
cried  the  tramp.  "These  board  schools  it  is. 
Gets  'old  of  everything  'e  can  and  bunks !  Gaw ! 
if  I  get  my  'ands  on  'im,  I'll  show  'im.     I'll — " 

For  some  time  the  tramp  revelled  in  the  details, 
for  the  most  part  crudely  surgical,  of  his  ven- 
geance upon  Bealby.  .  .  . 

"Then  there's  that  dog  bite.  'Ow  do  I  know 
'ow  that's  going  to  turn  at  ?  If  I  get  'idrophobia, 
blowed  if  I  don't  bite  some  of  'em.  'Idrophobia. 
Screaming  and  foaming.  Nice  death  for  a  man 
—  my  time  o'  life  !    Bark  I  shall.     Bark  and  bite. 

"And  this  is  your  world,"  said  the  tramp. 
"This  is  the  world  you  put  people  into  and  ex- 
pect 'em  to  be  'appy.  .  .  . 

"I'd  like  to  bite  that  dough-faced  fool  with  the 
silly  'at.  I'd  enjoy  biting  'im.  I'd  spit  it  out 
but  I'd  bite  it  right  enough.  Wiping  abat  with 
'is  '0.  Gaw !  Get  off  my  ground  !  Be  orf  with 
you.     Slash.     'E  ought  to  be  shut  up. 

"Where's  the  justice  of  it  ?  "  shouted  the  tramp. 
"Where's  the  right  and  the  sense  of  it?  What 
'ave  /  done  that  I  should  always  get  the  under 
side?  Why  should  /  be  stuck  on  the  under  side 
of  everything?  There's  worse  men  than  me  in 
all  sorts  of  positions.  .  .  .  Judges  there  are. 
'Orrible  Kerecters.  Ministers  and  people.  I've 
read  abat  'em  in  the  papers.  .  .  . 

"It's  we  tramps  are  the  scapegoats.     Some- 


Me  battle  of  crayminster    253 

body^s  got  to  suffer  so  as  the  police  can  show  a 
face.  Gaw !  Some  of  these  days  I'll  do  some- 
thing. Ill  do  something.  Youll  drive  me  too 
far  with  it.     I  tell  you  — ''  ; 

He  stopped  suddenly  and  listened.  Bealby 
had  creaked. 

"Gaw!  What  can  one  do?''  said  the  tramp 
after  a  long  interval. 

And  then  complaining  more  gently,  the  tramp 
began  to  feel  about  to  make  his  simple  prepara- 
tions for  the  night. 

"'Untme  out  of  this,  I  expect/'  said  the  tramp. 
"And  many  sleeping  in  feather  beds  that  ain't  fit 
to  'old  a  candle  to  me.  Not  a  hordinary  farthing 
candle.  ..." 


The  subsequent  hour  or  so  was  an  interval  of 
tedious  tension  for  Bealby. 

After  vast  spaces  of  time  he  was  suddenly 
aware  of  three  vertical  threads  of  light.  He 
stared  at  them  with  mysterious  awe,  until  he 
realized  that  they  were  just  the  moonshine 
streaming  through  the  cracks  of  the  shed. 

The  tramp  tossed  and  muttered  in  his  sleep. 

Footsteps  ? 

Yes  —  Footsteps. 

Then  voices. 

They  were  coming  along  by  the  edge  of  the 
field,  and  coming  and  talking  very  discreetly. 

"Ugh!"  said  the  tramp,  and  then  softly, 
"what's  that?"  Then  he  too  became  noiselessly 
attentive. 


254  BEALBY 

Bealby  could  hear  his  own  heart  beating. 

The  men  were  now  close  outside  the  shed. 
"He  wouldn't  go  in  there/'  said  Mr.  Benshaw's 
voice.  "He  wouldn't  dare.  Anyhow  we'll  go 
up  by  the  glass  first.  I'll  let  him  have  the  whole 
barrelful  of  oats  if  I  get  a  glimpse  of  him.  If 
he'd  gone  away  they'd  have  caught  him  in  the 
road.  .  .  ." 

The  footsteps  receded.  There  came  a  cautious 
rustling  on  the  part  of  the  tramp  and  then  his 
feet  padded  softly  to  the  door  of  the  shed.  He 
struggled  to  open  it  and  then  with  a  jerk  got 
it  open  a  few  inches;  a  great  bar  of  moonlight 
leapt  and  lay  still  across  the  floor  of  the  shed. 
Bealby  advanced  his  head  cautiously  until  he 
could  see  the  black  obscure  indications  of  the 
tramp's  back  as  he  peeped  out. 

"iVoiy,"  whispered  the  tramp  and  opened  the 
door  wider.  Then  he  ducked  his  head  down  and 
darted  out  of  sight,  leaving  the  door  open  behind 
him. 

Bealby  questioned  whether  he  should  follow. 
He  came  out  a  few  steps  and  then  went  back  at 
a  shout  from  away  up  the  garden.  "There  he 
goes/'  shouted  a  voice,  "in  the  shadow  of  the 
hedge." 

"  Look  out,  Jim ! "  —  Bang  —  and  a  yelp. 

"Stand  away !    I've  got  another  barrel !" 

Bang. 

Then  silence  for  a  time,  and  then  the  footsteps 
coming  back, 

"That  ought  to  teach  him,"  said  Mr.  Benshaw. 
"First  time,  I  got  him  fair,  and  I  think  I  peppered 


THE  BATTLE  OF  CRAYMINSTER       255 

him  a  bit  the  second.  Couldn't  see  very  well, 
but  I  heard  him  yell.  He  won't  forget  that  in  a 
hurry.  Not  him.  There's  nothing  like  oats 
for  fruit  stealers.  Jim,  just  shut  that  door, 
will  you?     That's  where  he  was  hiding.  .  .  ." 

It  seemed  a  vast  time  to  Bealby  before  he 
ventured  out  into  the  summer  moonlight,  and  a 
very  pitiful  and  outcast  little  Bealby  he  felt  him- 
self to  be. 

He  was  beginning  to  realize  what  it  means  to 
go  beyond  the  narrow  securities  of  human  society. 
He  had  no  friends,  no  friends  at  all.  .  .  . 

He  caught  at  and  arrested  a  sob  of  self-pity. 

Perhaps  after  all  it  was  not  so  late  as  Bealby 
had  supposed.  There  were  still  lights  in  some  of 
the  houses  and  he  had  the  privilege  of  seeing  Mr. 
Benshaw  going  to  bed  with  pensive  deliberation. 
Mr.  Benshaw  wore  a  flannel  night-shirt  and  said 
quite  a  lengthy  prayer  before  extinguishing  his 
candle.  Then  suddenly  Bealby  turned  ner- 
vously and  made  off  through  the  hedge.  A  dog 
had  barked. 

At  first  there  were  nearly  a  dozen  lighted 
windows  in  Crayminster.  They  went  out  one 
by  one.  He  hung  for  a  long  time  with  a  passionate 
earnestness  on  the  sole  surviving  one,  but  that 
too  went  at  last.  He  could  have  wept  when  at 
last  it  winked  out.  He  came  down  into  the  marshy 
flats  by  the  river,  but  he  did  not  like  the  way 
in  which  the  water  sucked  and  swirled  in  the 
vague  moonlight ;  also  he  suddenly  discovered 
a  great  white  horse  standing  quite  still  in  the 
misty  grass  not  thirty  yards  away  ;  so  he  went  up 


256  BEALBY 

to  and  crossed  the  high  road  and  wandered  up 
the  hillside  towards  the  allotments,  which  at- 
tracted him  by  reason  of  the  sociability  of  the 
numerous  tool  sheds.  In  a  hedge  near  at  hand 
a  young  rabbit  squealed  sharply  and  was  stilled. 
Why? 

Then  something  like  a  short  snake  scrabbled  by 
very  fast  through  the  grass. 

Then  he  thought  he  saw  the  tramp  stalking 
him  noiselessly  behind  some  currant  bushes. 
That  went  on  for  some  time,  but  came  to  nothing. 

Then  nothing  pursued  him,  nothing  at  all. 
The  gap,  the  void,  came  after  him.  The  bodiless, 
the  faceless,  the  formless ;  these  are  evil  hunters 
in  the  night.  .  .  . 

What  a  cold  still  watching  thing  moonlight  can 
be !  .  .  . 

He  thought  he  would  like  to  get  his  back 
against  something  solid,  and  found  near  one  of 
the  sheds  a  little  heap  of  litter.  He  sat  down 
against  good  tarred  boards,  assured  at  least 
that  whatever  came  must  come  in  front.  What- 
ever he  did,  he  was  resolved,  he  would  not  shut 
his  eyes. 

That  would  be  fatal.  .  .  . 

He  awoke  in  broad  daylight  amidst  a  cheerful 
uproar  of  birds. 

§6 

And  then  again  flight  and  pursuit  were  resumed. 

As  Bealby  went  up  the  hill  away  from  Cray- 
minster  he  saw  a  man  standing  over  a  spade  and 
watching  his  retreat  and  when  he  looked  back 


THE  BATTLE  OF  CRAYMINSTER      257 

again  presently  this  man  was  following.  It  was 
Lady  Laxton's  five  pound  reward  had  done  the 
thing  for  him. 

He  was  half  minded  to  surrender  and  have  done 
with  it,  but  jail  he  knew  was  a  dreadful  thing 
of  stone  and  darkness.  He  would  make  one  last 
effort.  So  he  beat  along  the  edge  of  a  plantation 
and  then  crossed  it  and  forced  his  way  through 
some  gorse  and  came  upon  a  sunken  road,  that 
crossed  the  hill  in  a  gorse-lined  cutting.  He 
struggled  down  the  steep  bank.  At  its  foot,  re- 
gardless of  him,  unaware  of  him,  a  man  sat  beside 
a  motor  bicycle  with  his  fists  gripped  tight  and 
his  head  downcast,  swearing.  A  county  map 
was  crumpled  in  his  hand.  "Damn!''  he  cried, 
and  flung  the  map  to  the  ground  and  kicked  it 
and  put  his  foot  on  it. 

Bealby  slipped,  came  down  the  bank  with  a  run 
and  found  himself  in  the  road  within  a  couple 
of  yards  of  the  blond  features  and  angry  eyes  of 
Captain  Douglas.  When  he  saw  the  Captain  and 
perceived  himself  recognized,  he  flopped  down  — 
a  done  and  finished  Bealby.  .  .  . 

§7 

He  had  arrived  just  in  time  to  interrupt  the 
Captain  in  a  wild  and  reprehensible  fit  of  passion. 

The  Captain  imagined  it  was  a  secret  fit  of  pas- 
sion. He  thought  he  was  quite  alone  and  that 
no  one  could  hear  him  or  see  him.  So  he  had  let 
himself  shout  and  stamp,  to  work  off  the  nervous 
tensions  that  tormented  him  beyond  endurance. 


258  BEALBY 

In  the  direst  sense  of  the  words  the  Captain  was 
in  love  with  Madeleine.  He  was  in  love  quite 
beyond  the  bounds  set  by  refined  and  decorous 
people  to  this  dangerous  passion.  The  pri- 
mordial savage  that  lurks  in  so  many  of  us  was 
uppermost  in  him.  He  was  not  in  love  with  her 
prettily  or  delicately,  he  was  in  love  with  her 
violently  and  vehemently.  He  wanted  to  be 
with  her,  he  wanted  to  be  close  to  her,  he  wanted 
to  possess  her  and  nobody  else  to  approach  her. 
He  was  so  inflamed  now  that  no  other  interest 
in  life  had  any  importance  except  as  it  aided  or 
interfered  with  this  desire.  He  had  forced  him- 
self in  spite  of  this  fever  in  his  blood  to  leave 
her  to  pursue  Bealby,  and  now  he  was  regretting 
this  firmness  furiously.  He  had  expected  to 
catch  Bealby  overnight  and  bring  him  back  to 
the  hotel  in  triumph.  But  Bealby  had  been 
elusive.  There  she  was,  away  there,  hurt  and 
indignant  —  neglected ! 

"A  laggard  in  love,"  cried  the  Captain,  "a 
dastard  in  war !  God  !  —  I  run  away  from  every- 
thing. First  I  leave  the  manoeuvres,  then  her. 
Unstable  as  water  thou  shalt  not  prevail.  Water ! 
What  does  the  confounded  boy  matter?  What 
does  he  matter? 

"And  there  she  is.  Alone!  She'll  flirt  — 
naturally  she'll  flirt.  Don't  I  deserve  it? 
Haven't  I  asked  for  it?  Just  the  one  little  time 
we  might  have  had  together !  I  fling  it  in  her 
face.  You  fool,  you  laggard,  you  dastard  1  And 
here's  this  map !" 

A  breathing  moment. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  CRAYMINSTER       259 

"How  the  devil/^  cried  the  Captain,  "am  I  to 
find  the  little  beast  on  this  map  ? 

"And  twice  he's  been  within  reach  of  my  hand  ! 

"No  decision!"  cried  the  Captain.  "No  in- 
stant grip !  What  good  is  a  soldier  without  it  ? 
What  good  is  any  man  who  will  not  leap  at 
opportunity?  I  ought  to  have  chased  out  last 
night  after  that  fool  and  his  oats.  Then  I  might 
have  had  a  chance ! 

"Chuck  it!  Chuck  the  whole  thing!  Go 
back  to  her.     Kneel  to  her,  kiss  her,  compel  her  ! 

"And  what  sort  of  reception  am  I  likely  to 
get?" 

He  crumpled  the  flapping  map  in  his  fist. 

And  then  suddenly  out  of  nowhere  Bealby 
came  rolling  down  to  his  feet,  a  dishevelled  and 
earthy  Bealby.     But  Bealby. 

"Good  Lord!"  cried  the  Captain,  starting  to 
his  feet  and  holding  the  map  like  a  sword  sheath. 

"What  do  you  want?" 

For  a  second  Bealby  was  a  silent  spectacle  of 
misery. 

"Oooh!  I  want  my  hreckfuss/*  he  burst  out 
at  last,  reduced  to  tears. 

"Are  you  young  Bealby?"  asked  the  Captain, 
seizing  him  by  the  shoulder. 

"They're  after  me,"  cried  Bealby.  "If  they 
catch  me  they'll  put  me  in  prison.  Where  they 
don't  give  you  anything.  It  wasn't  me  did  it  — 
and  I  'aven't  had  anything  to  eat  —  not  since 
yesterday." 

The  Captain  came  rapidly  to  a  decision.  There 
should  be  no  more  faltering.     He  saw  his  way 


260  BEALBY 

clear  before  him.  He  would  act  —  like  a  whist- 
ling sword.  "Here!  jump  up  behind/^  he  said 
.  .  .  "  hold  on  tight  to  me.  .  .  ." 

§8 

For  a  time  there  was  a  more  than  Napoleonic 
swiftness  in  the  Captain^s  movements.  When 
Bealby^s  pursuer  came  up  to  the  hedge  that  looks 
down  into  the  sunken  road,  there  was  no  Bealby, 
no  Captain,  nothing  but  a  torn  and  dishevelled 
county  map,  an  almost  imperceptible  odour  of 
petrol  and  a  faint  sound  —  like  a  distant  mowing 
machine  —  and  the  motor  bicycle  was  a  mile 
away  on  the  road  to  Beckinstone.  Eight  miles, 
eight  rather  sickening  miles,  Bealby  did  to  Beck- 
instone in  eleven  minutes,  and  there  in  a  little 
coffee  house  he  was  given  breakfast  with  eggs 
and  bacon  and  marmalade  (Prime !),  and  his 
spirit  was  restored  to  him  while  the  Captain 
raided  a  bicycle  and  repairing  shop  and  nego- 
tiated the  hire  of  an  experienced  but  fairly  com- 
fortable wickerwork  trailer.  And  so,  to  London 
through  the  morning  sunshine,  leaving  tramps, 
pursuers,  policemen,  handbills,  bakers,  market 
gardeners,  terrors  of  the  darkness  and  everything 
upon  the  road  behind  —  and  further  behind  and 
remote  and  insignificant  —  and  so  to  the  vanishing 
point. 

Some  few  words  of  explanation  the  Captain 
had  vouchsafed,  and  that  was  all. 

"Don't  be  afraid  about  it,''  he  said.  "Don't 
be  in  the  least  bit  afraid.     You  tell  them  about  it. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  CRAYMINSTER      261 

just  simply  and  truthfully,  exactly  what  you  did, 
exactly  how  you  got  into  it  and  out  of  it  and  all 
about  it.'^ 

'^You're  going  to  take  me  up  to  a  Magistrate, 
sir?" 

"I'm  going  to  take  you  up  to  the  Lord  Chan- 
cellor himself. '^ 

"And  then  they  won't  do  anything?'' 

"Nothing  at  all,  Bealby;  you  trust  me.  All 
youVe  got  to  do  is  to  tell  the  simple  truth.  .  .  .'' 

It  was  pretty  rough  going  in  the  trailer,  but  very 
exciting.  If  you  gripped  the  sides  very  hard,  and 
sat  quite  tight,  nothing  very  much  happened  and 
also  there  was  a  strap  across  your  chest.  And 
you  went  past  everything.  There  wasn't  a  thing 
on  the  road  the  Captain  didn't  pass,  lowing  deeply 
with  his  great  horn  when  they  seemed  likely  to 
block  his  passage.  And  as  for  the  burglary  and 
everything,  it  would  all  be  settled.  .  .  . 

The  Captain  also  found  that  ride  to  London 
exhilarating.  At  least  he  was  no  longer  hanging 
about ;  he  was  getting  to  something.  He  would 
be  able  to  go  back  to  her  —  and  all  his  being  now 
yearned  to  go  back  to  her  —  with  things  achieved, 
with  successes  to  show.  He'd  found  the  boy. 
He  would  go  straight  to  dear  old  uncle  Chickney, 
and  uncle  Chickney  would  put  things  right  with 
Moggeridge,  the  boy  would  bear  his  testimony, 
Moggeridge  would  be  convinced  and  all  would  be 
well  again.  He  might  be  back  with  Madeleine 
that  evening.  He  would  go  back  to  her,  and  she 
would  see  the  wisdom  and  energy  of  all  he  had 
done,  and  she  would  lift  that  dear  chin  of  hers  and 


262  BEALBY 

smile  that  dear  smile  of  hers  and  hold  out  her 
hand  to  be  kissed  and  the  lights  and  reflections 
would  play  on  that  strong  soft  neck  of  hers.  .  .  . 

They  buzzed  along  stretches  of  common  and 
stretches  of  straight-edged  meadowland,  by  woods 
and  orchards,  by  pleasant  inns  and  slumbering 
villages  and  the  gates  and  lodges  of  country  houses. 

These  latter  grew  more  numerous,  and  presently 
they  skirted  a  town,  and  then  more  road,  more 
villages  and  at  last  signs  of  a  nearness  to  London, 
more  frequent  houses,  more  frequent  inns,  hoard- 
ings and  advertisements,  an  asphalted  sidewalk, 
lamps,  a  gasworks,  laundries,  a  stretch  of  suburban 
villadom,  a  suburban  railway  station,  a  suburban- 
ized  old  town,  an  omnibus,  the  head  of  a  tramline, 
a  stretch  of  public  common  thick  with  notice- 
boards,  a  broad  pavement,  something-or-other 
parade,  with  a  row  of  shops.  .  .  . 

London. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

HOW  BEALBY  EXPLAINED 
§1 

Lord  Chickney  was  only  slightly  older  than 
Lord  Moggeridge,  but  he  had  not  worn  nearly  so 
well.  His  hearing  was  not  good,  though  he  would 
never  admit  it,  and  the  loss  of  several  teeth 
greatly  affected  his  articulation.  One  might 
generalize  and  say  that  neither  physically  nor 
mentally  do  soldiers  wear  so  well  as  lawyers. 
The  army  ages  men  sooner  than  the  law  and  phi- 
losophy ;  it  exposes  them  more  freely  to  germs, 
which  undermine  and  destroy,  and  it  shelters 
them  more  completely  from  thought,  which 
stimulates  and  preserves.  A  lawyer  must  keep 
his  law  highly  polished  and  up-to-date  or  he  hears 
of  it  within  a  fortnight,  a  general  never  realizes 
he  is  out  of  training  and  behind  the  times  until 
disaster  is  accomplished.  Since  the  magnificent 
retreat  from  Bondy-Satina  in  eighty-seven  and 
his  five  weeks  defence  of  Barrowgast  (with  the 
subsequent  operations)  the  abilities  of  Lord 
Chickney  had  never  been  exercised  seriously 
at  all.  But  there  was  a  certain  simplicity  of 
manner  and  a  tall  drooping  grizzled  old-veteran 
picturesqueness  about  him    that  kept  him  dis- 

263 


264  BEALBY 

tinguished ;  he  was  easy  to  recognize  on  public 
occasions  on  account  of  his  long  moustaches, 
and  so  he  got  pointed  out  when  greater  men  were 
ignored.  The  autograph  collectors  adored  him. 
Every  morning  he  would  spend  half  an  hour 
writing  autographs,  and  the  habit  was  so  strong 
in  him  that  on  Sundays,  when  there  was  no  London 
post  and  autograph  writing  would  have  been 
wrong  anyhow,  he  filled  the  time  in  copying  out 
the  epistle  and  gospel  for  the  day.  And  he  liked  to 
be  well  in  the  foreground  of  public  affairs  —  if 
possible  wearing  his  decorations.  After  the  auto- 
graphs he  would  work,  sometimes  for  hours,  for 
various  patriotic  societies  and  more  particularly 
for  those  which  would  impose  compulsory 
training  upon  every  man,  woman  and  child  in 
the  country.  He  even  belonged  to  a  society  for 
drilling  the  butchers^  ponies  and  training  big 
dogs  as  scouts.  He  did  not  understand  how  a 
country  could  be  happy  unless  every  city  was 
fortified  and  every  citizen  wore  side-arms,  and 
the  slightest  error  in  his  dietary  led  to  the  most 
hideous  nightmares  of  the  Channel  Tunnel  or 
reduced  estimates  and  a  land  enslaved.  He 
wrote  and  toiled  for  these  societies,  but  he  could 
not  speak  for  them  on  account  of  his  teeth.  For 
he  had  one  peculiar  weakness ;  he  had  faced 
death  in  many  forms  but  he  had  never  faced  a 
dentist.  The  thought  of  dentists  gave  him  just 
the  same  sick  horror  as  the  thought  of  invasion. 

He  was  a  man  of  blameless  private  life,  a 
widower  and  childless.  In  later  years  he  had 
come  to  believe  that  he  had  once  been  very  deeply 


HOW  BEALBY  EXPLAINED  265 

in  love  with  his  cousin,  Susan,  who  had  married 
a  rather  careless  husband  named  Douglas;  both 
she  and  Douglas  were  dead  now,  but  he  main- 
tained a  touching  affection  for  her  two  lively 
rather  than  satisfying  sons.  He  called  them 
his  nephews,  and  by  the  continuous  attrition  of 
affection  he  had  become  their  recognized  uncle.  He 
was  glad  when  they  came  to  him  in  their  scrapes, 
and  he  liked  to  be  seen  about  with  them  in  public 
places.  They  regarded  him  with  considerable 
confidence  and  respect  and  an  affection  that  they 
sometimes  blamed  themselves  for  as  not  quite 
warm  enough  for  his  merits.  But  there  is  a 
kind  of  injustice  about  affection. 

He  was  really  gratified  when  he  got  a  wire 
from  the  less  discreditable  of  these  two  bright 
young  relations,  saying,  "Sorely  in  need  of  your 
advice.  Hope  to  bring  difficulties  to  you  to-day 
at  twelve.^' 

He  concluded  very  naturally  that  the  boy  had 
come  to  some  crisis  in  his  unfortunate  entangle- 
ment with  Madeleine  Philips,  and  he  was  flattered 
by  the  trustfulness  that  brought  the  matter  to 
him.  He  resolved  to  be  delicate  but  wily,  honour- 
able, strictly  honourable,  but  steadily,  patiently 
separative.  He  paced  his  spacious  study  with 
his  usual  morning^s  work  neglected,  and  rehearsed 
little  sentences  in  his  mind  that  might  be  effective 
in  the  approaching  interview.  There  would  prob- 
ably be  emotion.  He  would  pat  the  lad  on  his 
shoulder  and  be  himself  a  little  emotional.  "I 
understand,  my  boy,"  he  would  say,  "I  under- 
stand. 


266  BEALBY 

"  Don't  forget,  my  boy,  that  Fve  been  a  young 
man  too.'^ 

He  would  be  emotional,  he  would  be  sym- 
pathetic, but  also  he  must  be  a  man  of  the  world. 
"Sort  of  thing  that  won't  do,  you  know,  my  boy ; 
sort  of  thing  that  people  will  not  stand.  ...  A 
soldier's  wife  has  to  be  a  soldier's  wife  and  nothing 
else.  .  .  .  Your  business  is  to  serve  the  king, 
not  —  not  some  celebrity.  Lovely,  no  doubt. 
I  don't  deny  the  charm  of  her  —  but  on  the 
hoardings,  my  boy.  .  .  .  Now  don't  you  think 
—  don't  you  think  f  —  there's  some  nice  pure 
girl  somewhere,  sweet  as  violets,  new  as  the  dawn, 
and  ready  to  be  yours;  bl  girl,  I  mean,  a  maiden 
fancy  free,  not  —  how  shall  I  put  it  ?  —  a  woman 
of  the  world.  Wonderful,  I  admit  —  but  seasoned. 
Public.  My  dear,  dear  boy,  I  knew  your  mother 
when  she  was  a  girl,  a  sweet  pure  girl  —  a  thing  of 
dewy  freshness.  Ah !  Well  I  remember  her ! 
All  these  years,  my  boy  —  Nothing.  It's  diffi- 
cult. ..." 

Tears  stood  in  his  brave  old  blue  eyes  as  he 
elaborated  such  phrases.  He  went  up  and  down 
mumbling  them  through  the  defective  teeth  and 
the  long  moustache  and  waving  an  eloquent 
hand. 

§2 

When  Lord  Chickney's  thoughts  had  once 
started  in  any  direction  it  was  difficult  to  turn 
them  aside.  No  doubt  that  concealed  and  re- 
pudiated deafness  helped  his  natural  perplexity 
of  mind.     Truth  comes  to    some  of  us  as  a  still 


HOW  BEALBY  EXPLAINED  267 

small  voice,  but  Lord  Chickney  needed  shouting 
and  prods.  And  Douglas  did  not  get  to  him 
until  he  was  finishing  lunch.  Moreover,  it  was 
the  weakness  of  Captain  Douglas  to  talk  in 
jerky  fragments  and  undertones,  rather  than 
clearly  and  fully  in  the  American  fashion.  "  Tell 
me  all  about  it,  my  boy,''  said  Lord  Chick- 
ney. "Tell  me  all  about  it.  Don't  apologize 
for  your  clothes.  I  understand.  Motor  bicycle 
and  just  come  up.  But  have  you  had  any  lunch, 
Eric?" 

"Alan,  uncle,  —  not  Eric.     My  brother  is  Eric." 

"Well,  I  called  him  Alan.  Tell  me  all  about 
it.  Tell  me  what  has  happened.  What  are  you 
thinking  of  doing?  Just  put  the  positions  before 
me.  To  tell  you  the  truth  I've  been  worrying 
over  this  business  for  some  time." 

"Didn't  know  you'd  heard  of  it,  uncle.  He 
can't  have  talked  about  it  already.  Anyhow,  — 
you  see  all  the  awkwardness  of  the  situation. 
They  say  the  old  chap's  a  thundering  spiteful 
old  devil  when  he's  roused  —  and  there's  no 
doubt  he  was  roused.  .  .  .     Tremendously.  .  .  ." 

Lord  Chickney  was  not  listening  very  atten- 
tively. Indeed  he  was  also  talking.  "Not  clear 
to  me  there  was  another  man  in  it,"  he  was  saying. 
"That  makes  it  more  complicated,  my  boy,  makes 
the  row  acuter.     Old  fellow,  eh?    Who?" 

They  came  to  a  pause  at  the  same  moment. 

"You  speak  so  indistinctly,"  complained  Lord 
Chickney.     "Who  did  you  say?" 

"I  thought  you  understood.  Lord  Mogger- 
id&e." 


268  BEALBY 

"Lord  —  !    Lord  Moggeridge !    My  dear  Boy ! 

But  how?" 

"I  thought  you  understood,  uncle." 

"  He  doesn't  want  to  marry  her !  Tut !  Never ! 
Why,  the  man  must  be  sixty  if  he's  a  day.  ..." 

Captain  Douglas  regarded  his  distinguished 
uncle  for  a  moment  with  distressed  eyes.  Then  he 
came  nearer,  raised  his  voice  and  spoke  more 
deliberately. 

"I  don't  know  whether  you  quite  understand, 
uncle.  I  am  talking  about  this  affair  at  Shonts 
last  week-end." 

"My  dear  boy,  there's  no  need  for  you  to 
shout.  If  only  you  don't  mumble  and  clip  your 
words  —  and  turn  head  over  heels  with  your  ideas. 
Just  tell  me  about  it  plainly.  Who  is  Shonts? 
one  of  those  Liberal  peers?  I  seem  to  have 
heard  the  name.  .  .  ." 

"Shonts,  uncle,  is  the  house  the  Laxtons  have; 
you  know,  —  Lucy." 

"Little  Lucy!  I  remember  her.  Curls  all 
down  her  back.  Married  the  milkman.  But 
how  does  she  come  in,  Alan?  The  story's  get- 
ting—  complicated.  But  that's  the  worst  of  these 
infernal  affairs,  —  they  always  do  get  compli- 
cated.    Tangled  skeins  — 

"  *  Oh  what  a  tangled  web  we  weave, 
When  first  we  venture  to  deceive.' 

"And  now,  like  a  sensible  man,  you  want  to 
get  out  of  it." 

Captain  Douglas  was  bright  pink  with  the 
effort  to  control  himself  and  keep  perfectly  plain 


HOW  BEALBY  EXPLAINED  269 

and  straightforward.  His  hair  had  become  like 
tow  and  little  beads  of  perspiration  stood  upon 
his  forehead. 

"I  spent  last  week-end  at  Shonts,"  he  said. 
"Lord  Moggeridge,  also  there,  week-ending.  Got 
it  into  his  head  that  I  was  pulling  his  leg.'' 

"Naturally,  my  boy,  if  he  goes  philandering. 
At  his  time  of  life.     What  else  can  he  expect?'' 

"It  wasn't  philandering." 

"Fine  distinctions.  Fine  distinctions.  Go  on 
—  anyhow." 

"He  got  it  into  his  head  that  I  was  playing 
practical  jokes  upon  him.  Confused  me  with 
Eric.  It  led  to  a  rather  first-class  row.  I  had 
to  get  out  of  the  house.  Nothing  else  to  do.  He 
brought  all  sorts  of  accusations  —  " 

Captain  Douglas  stopped  short.  His  uncle 
was  no  longer  attending  to  him.  They  had 
drifted  to  the  window  of  the  study  and  the  general 
was  staring  with  an  excitement  and  intelligence 
that  grew  visibly  at  the  spectacle  of  Bealby  and 
the  trailer  outside.  For  Bealby  had  been  left 
in  the  trailer,  and  he  was  sitting  as  good  as  gold 
waiting  for  the  next  step  in  his  vindication  from 
the  dark  charge  of  burglary.  He  was  very  travel- 
worn  and  the  trailer  was  time-worn  as  well  as 
travel-worn,  and  both  contrasted  with  the  efficient 
neatness  and  newness  of  the  motor  bicycle  in 
front.  The  contrast  had  attracted  the  attention 
of  a  tall  policeman  who  was  standing  in  a  state 
of  elucidatory  meditation  regarding  Bealby. 
Bealby  was  not  regarding  the  policeman.  He 
had  the  utmost  confidence  in  Captain  Douglas, 


270  BEALBY 

he  felt  sure  that  he  would  presently  be  purged  of 
all  the  horror  of  that  dead  old  man  and  of  the 
brief  unpremeditated  plunge  into  crime,  but  still 
for  the  present  at  any  rate  he  did  not  feel  equal  to 
staring  a  policeman  out  of  countenance.  .  .  . 

From  the  window  the  policeman  very  largely 
obscured  Bealby.  .  .  . 

Whenever  hearts  are  simple  there  lurks  romance. 
Age  cannot  wither  nor  custom  stale  her  infinite 
diversity.  Suddenly  out  of  your  low  kindly 
diplomacies,  your  sane  man-of-the-world  inten- 
tions, leaps  the  imagination  like  a  rocket,  flying 
from  such  safe  securities  bang  into  the  sky.  So 
it  happened  to  the  old  general.  He  became 
deaf  to  everything  but  the  appearances  before 
him.  The  world  was  jewelled  with  dazzling  and 
delightful  possibilities.  His  face  was  lit  by  a 
glow  of  genuine  romantic  excitement.  He  grasped 
his  nephew^s  arm.  He  pointed.  His  grizzled 
cheeks  flushed. 

"That  isn't,''  he  asked  with  something  verging 
upon  admiration  in  his  voice  and  manner,  "a 
Certain  Lady  in  disguise?" 

§3 

It  became  clear  to  Captain  Douglas  that  if 
ever  he  was  to  get  to  Lord  Moggeridge  that  day 
he  must  take  his  uncle  firmly  in  hand.  Without 
even  attempting  not  to  appear  to  shout  he  cried, 
"That  is  a  little  Boy.  That  is  my  Witness.  It 
is  Most  Important  that  I  should  get  him  to  Lord 
Moggeridge  to  tell  his  Story." 


HOW  BEALBY  EXPLAINED  271 


ttMil 


What  story?"  cried  the  old  commander, 
pulling  at  his  moustache  and  still  eyeing  Bealby 
suspiciously.  .  .  . 

It  took  exactly  half  an  hour  to  get  Lord  Chick- 
ney  from  that  enquiry  to  the  telephone  and  even 
then  he  was  still  far  from  clear  about  the  matter 
in  hand.  Captain  Douglas  got  in  most  of  the 
facts,  but  he  could  not  eliminate  an  idea  that  it 
all  had  to  do  with  Madeleine.  Whenever  he 
tried  to  say  clearly  that  she  was  entirely  outside 
the  question,  the  general  patted  his  shoulder  and 
looked  very  wise  and  kind  and  said,  ^^My  dear 
Boy,  I  quite  understand ;  I  quite  understand. 
Never  mention  a  lady.     NoJ^ 

So  they  started  at  last  rather  foggily  —  so  far 
as  things  of  the  mind  went,  though  the  sun  that 
day  was  brilliant  —  and  because  of  engine  trouble 
in  Port  Street  the  general's  hansom  reached 
Tenby  Little  Street  first  and  he  got  in  a  good 
five  minutes  preparing  the  Lord  Chancellor  tact- 
fully and  carefully  before  the  bicycle  and  its 
trailer  came  upon  the  scene.  .  .  . 


Candler  had  been  packing  that  morning  with 
unusual  solicitude  for  a  week-end  at  Tulliver 
Abbey.  His  master  had  returned  from  the  catas- 
trophe of  Shonts,  fatigued  and  visibly  aged  and 
extraordinarily  cross,  and  Candler  looked  to 
Tulliver  Abbey  to  restore  him  to  his  former  self. 
Nothing  must  be  forgotten;  there  must  be  no 
little  hitcheS;  everything  from  first  to  last  must 


272  BEALBY 

go  on  oiled  wheels,  or  it  was  clear  his  Lordship 
might  develop  a  desperate  hostility  to  these 
excursions,  excursions  which  Candler  found  sin- 
gularly refreshing  and  entertaining  during  the 
stresses  of  the  session.  TuUiver  Abbey  was  as 
good  a  house  as  Shonts  was  bad;  Lady  Check- 
sammington  ruled  with  the  softness  of  velvet 
and  the  strength  of  steel  over  a  household  of 
admirably  efficient  domestics,  and  there  would 
be  the  best  of  people  there,  Mr.  Evesham  perhaps, 
the  Loopers,  Lady  Privet,  Andreas  Doria  and 
Mr.  Pernambuco,  great  silken  mellow  personages 
and  diamond-like  individualities,  amidst  whom 
Lord  Moggeridge's  mind  would  be  restfully  active 
and  his  comfort  quite  secure.  And  as  far  as 
possible  Candler  wanted  to  get  the  books  and 
papers  his  master  needed  into  the  trunk  or  the 
small  valise.  That  habit  of  catching  up  every- 
thing at  the  last  moment  and  putting  it  under 
his  arm  and  the  consequent  need  for  alert  picking 
up,  meant  friction  and  nervous  wear  and  tear 
for  both  master  and  man. 

Lord  Moggeridge  rose  at  half-past  ten  —  he 
had  been  kept  late  overnight  by  a  heated  discus- 
sion at  the  Aristotelian  —  and  breakfasted  lightly 
upon  a  chop  and  coffee.  Then  something  ruffled 
him ;  something  that  came  with  the  letters. 
Candler  could  not  quite  make  out  what  it  was, 
but  he  suspected  another  pamphlet  by  Dr.  Schiller. 
It  could  not  be  the  chop,  because  Lord  Moggeridge 
was  always  wonderfully  successful  with  chops. 
Candler  looked  through  the  envelopes  and  letters 
afterwards  and  found  nothing   diagnostic,   and 


HOW  BEALBY  EXPLAINED  273 

then  he  observed  a  copy  of  Mind  torn  across  and 
lying  in  the  waste-paper  basket. 

"When  I  went  out  of  the  room/'  said  Candler, 
discreetly  examining  this.  "Very  likely  it's  that 
there  Schiller  after  all." 

But  in  this  Candler  was  mistaken.  What  had 
disturbed  the  Lord  Chancellor  was  a  coarsely 
disrespectful  article  on  the  Absolute  by  a  Cam- 
bridge Rhodes  scholar,  written  in  that  flighty 
facetious  strain  that  spreads  now  like  a  pestilence 
over  modern  philosophical  discussion.  "Does  the 
Absolute,  on  Lord  Moggeridge's  own  showing, 
mean  anything  more  than  an  eloquent  oiliness 
uniformly  distributed  through  space?  "and  so  on. 

Pretty  bad ! 

Lord  Moggeridge  early  in  life  had  deliberately 
acquired  a  quite  exceptional  power  of  mental 
self-control.  He  took  his  perturbed  mind  now 
and  threw  it  forcibly  into  the  consideration  of  a 
case  upon  which  he  had  reserved  judgment.  He 
was  to  catch  the  3.35  at  Paddington,  and  at  two 
he  was  smoking  a  cigar  after  a  temperate  lunch 
and  reading  over  the  notes  of  this  judgment. 
It  was  then  that  the  telephone  bell  became  aud- 
ible, and  Candler  came  in  to  inform  him  that  Lord 
Chickney  was  anxious  to  see  him  at  once  upon  a 
matter  of  some  slight  importance. 

"Slight  importance?"  asked  Lord  Moggeridge. 

"Some  shght  importance,  my  lord." 

"Some?  Slight?" 

"  'Is  Lordship,  my  lord,  mumbles  rather  now 
'is  back  teeth  'ave  gone,"  said  Candler,  "but  so 
I  understand  'im." 


274  BEALBY 

"These  apologetic  assertive  phrases  annoy  me, 
Candler/'  said  Lord  Moggeridge  over  his  shoulder. 
"You  see/'  he  turned  round  and  spoke  very 
clearly,  "either  the  matter  is  of  importance  or 
it  is  not  of  importance.  A  thing  must  either  be 
or  not  be.  I  wish  you  would  manage  —  when 
you  get  messages  on  the  telephone  — ...  But 
I  suppose  that  is  asking  too  much.  .  .  .  Will 
you  explain  to  him,  Candler,  when  we  start, 
and  —  ask  him,  Candler  —  ask  him  what  sort  of 
matter  it  is." 

Candler  returned  after  some  parleying. 

"So  far  as  I  can  make  'is  Lordship  out,  my 
lord,  'e  says  'e  wants  to  set  you  right  about 
something,  my  lord.  He  says  something  about 
a  little  misapprehension." 

"These  diminutives,  Candler,  kill  sense.  Does 
he  say  what  sort  —  what  sort  —  of  little  mis- 
apprehension ? " 

"  He  says  something  —  I'm  sorry,  my  lord, 
but  it's  about  Shonts,  me  lord." 

"Then  I  don't  want  to  hear  about  it,"  said 
Lord  Moggeridge. 

There  was  a  pause.  The  Lord  Chancellor 
resumed  his  reading  with  a  deliberate  obvious- 
ness;   the  butler  hovered. 

"I'm  sorry,  my  lord,  but  I  can't  think  exactly 
what  I  ought  to  say  to  'is  lordship,   my  lord." 

"Tell  him  —  tell  him  that  I  do  not  wish  to 
hear  anything  more  about  Shonts  for  ever. 
Simply." 

Candler  hesitated  and  went  out,  shutting  the 
door  carefully  lest  any  fragment  of  his  halting 


HOW  BEALBY  EXPLAINED  275 

rendering   of   this   message   to   Lord    Chickney 
should  reach  his  master^s  ears. 

Lord  Moggeridge's  powers  of  mental  control 
were,  I  say,  very  great  —  He  could  dismiss 
subjects  from  his  mind  absolutely.  In  a  few 
instants  he  had  completely  forgotten  Shonts  and 
was  making  notes  with  a  silver-cased  pencil  on 
the  margins  of  his  draft  judgment. 

§5 

He  became  aware  that  Candler  had  returned. 

"  'Is  lordship,  Lord  Chickney,  my  lord,  is  very 
persistent,  my  lord.  'E's  rung  up  twice.  "E  says 
now  that  'e  makes  a  personal  matter  of  it.  Come 
what  may,  'e  says,  'e  wishes  to  speak  for  two 
minutes  to  your  lordship.  Over  the  telephone, 
my  lord,  'e  vouchsafes  no  further  information. '^ 

Lord  Moggeridge  meditated  over  the  end  of 
his  third  after  lunch  cigar.  His  man  watched 
the  end  of  his  left  eyebrow  as  an  engineer  might 
watch  a  steam  gauge.  There  were  no  signs  of 
an  explosion.  "He  must  come,  Candler,''  his 
lordship  said  at  last.  .  .  . 
Oh,  Candler!" 
My  lord?" 

Put  the  bags  and  things  in  a  conspicuous 
position  in  the  hall,  Candler.  Change  yourself, 
and  see  that  you  look  thoroughly  like  trains. 
And  in  fact  have  everything  ready,  'prominently 
ready,  Candler." 

Then  once  more  Lord  Moggeridge  concen- 
trated his  mind. 


n 
it 


276  BEALBY 


§6 


To  him  there  presently  entered  Lord  Chick- 
ney. 

Lord  Chickney  had  been  twice  round  the  world 
and  he  had  seen  many  strange  and  dusky  peoples 
and  many  remarkable  customs  and  peculiar  preju- 
dices, which  he  had  never  failed  to  despise,  but  he 
had  never  completely  shaken  off  the  county  family 
ideas  in  which  he  had  been  brought  up.  He 
believed  that  there  was  an  incurable  difference 
in  spirit  between  quite  good  people  like  himself 
and  men  from  down  below  like  Moggeridge,  who 
was  the  son  of  an  Exeter  chorister.  He  believed 
that  these  men  from  nowhere  always  cherished 
the  profoundest  respect  for  the  real  thing  like 
himself,  that  they  were  greedy  for  association  and 
gratified  by  notice,  and  so  for  the  life  of  him  he 
could  not  approach  Lord  Moggeridge  without  a 
faint  sense  of  condescension.  He  saluted  him  as 
"my  dear  Lord  Moggeridge,'^  wrung  his  hand 
with  effusion,  and  asked  him  kind,  almost  dis- 
trict-visiting, questions  about  his  younger  brother 
and  the  aspect  of  his  house.  "And  you  are  just 
off,  I  see,  for  a  week-end." 

These  amenities  the  Lord  Chancellor  acknowl- 
edged by  faint  gruntings  and  an  almost  imper- 
ceptible movement  of  his  eyebrows.  "There  was 
a  matter,"  he  said,  "some  little  matter,  on  which 
you  want  to  consult  me?" 

"Well,"  said  Lord  Chickney,  and  rubbed  his 
chin.  ^^Yes,  Yes,  there  was  a  little  matter,  a 
little  trouble  —  " 


HOW  BEALBY  EXPLAINED  277 

"Of  an  urgent  nature." 

"Yes.  Yes.  Exactly.  Just  a  little  compli- 
cated, you  know,  not  quite  simple."  The  dear 
old  soldier^s  manner  became  almost  seductive. 
"One  of  these  difficult  little  affairs,  where  one 
has  to  remember  that  one  is  a  man  of  the  world, 
you  know.  A  little  complication  about  a  lady, 
known  to  you  both.  But  one  must  make  con- 
cessions, one  must  understand.  The  boy  has  a 
witness.  Things  are  not  as  you  supposed  them 
to  be." 

Lord  Moggeridge  had  a  clean  conscience  about 
ladies ;  he  drew  out  his  watch  and  looked  at  it  — 
aggressively.  He  kept  it  in  his  hand  during  his 
subsequent  remarks. 

"I  must  confess,"  he  declared,  "I  have  not 
the  remotest  idea.  ...  If  you  will  be  so  good 
as  to  be  —  elementary.     What  is  it  all  about?" 

"You  see,  I  knew  the  lad's  mother,"  said  Lord 
Chickney.  "In  fact  — "  He  became  insanely 
confidential  —  "Under  happier  circumstances  — 
don't  misunderstand  me,  Moggeridge ;  I  mean  no 
evil  —  but  he  might  have  been  my  son.  I  feel 
for  him  like  a  son.  ..." 

§7 

When  presently  Captain  Douglas,  a  little 
heated  from  his  engine  trouble,  came  into  the 
room  —  he  had  left  Bealby  with  Candler  in  the 
hall  —  it  was  instantly  manifest  to  him  that  the 
work  of  preparation  had  been  inadequately  per- 
formed. 


278  BEALBY 

"One  minute  more,  my  dear  Alan,"  cried  Lord 
Chickney. 

Lord  Moggeridge  with  eyebrows  waving  and 
watch  in  hand  was  of  a  different  opinion.  He 
addressed  himself  to  Captain  Douglas. 

^^ There  isnH  a  minute  more/^  he  said.  "What 
is  all  this  —  this  philoprogenitive  rigmarole  about  ? 
Why  have  you  come  to  me?  My  cab  is  outside 
now.  All  this  about  ladies  and  witnesses ;  — 
what  is  it?'' 

"Perfectly  simple,  my  lord!  You  imagine 
that  I  played  practical  jokes  upon  you  at  Shonts. 
I  didn't.  I  have  a  witness.  The  attack  upon 
you  downstairs,  the  noise  in  your  room  —  '^ 

"Have  I  any  guarantee — ?" 

"It's  the  steward's  boy  from  Shonts.  Your 
man  outside  knows  him.  Saw  him  in  the  stew- 
ard's room.  He  made  the  trouble  for  you  — 
and  me,  and  then  he  ran  away.  Just  caught 
him.  Not  exchanged  thirty  words  with  him. 
Half  a  dozen  questions.  Settle  everything. 
Then  you'll  know  —  nothing  for  you  but  the 
utmost  respect." 

Lord  Moggeridge  pressed  his  lips  together  and 
resisted  conviction. 

"In  consideration,"  interpolated  Lord  Chick- 
ney, "feelings  of  an  old  fellow.  Old  soldier. 
Boy  means  no  harm." 

With  the  rudeness  of  one  sorely  tried  the  Lord 
Chancellor  thrust  the  old  general  aside.  "Oh!" 
he  said,  "Oh!"  and  then  to  Captain  Douglas. 
"One  minute.     Where's  your  witness?  .  .  ." 

The  Captain  opened   a  door.    Bealby  found 


(C 


HOW  BEALBY  EXPLAINED  279 

himself  bundled  into  the  presence  of  two  cele- 
brated men. 

"Tell  him/^  said  Captain  Douglas.  "And 
look  sharp  about  it." 

"Tell  me  plainly,"  cried  the  Lord  Chancellor, 

and  be  —  quick  J  ^ 

He  put  such  a  point  on  "quick"  that  it  made 
Bealby  jump. 

"Tell  him,"  said  the  general  more  gently. 
"Don't  be  afraid." 

"Well,"  began  Bealby  after  one  accumulating 
pause,  "it  was  'im  told  me  to  do  it.  'E  said  you 
go  in  there  —  " 

The  Captain  would  have  interrupted  but  the 
Lord  Chancellor  restrained  him  by  a  magnificent 
gesture  of  the  hand  holding  the  watch. 

"He  told  you  to  do  it !"  he  said.  "I  knew  he 
did.  Now  listen !  He  told  you  practically  to 
go  in  and  do  anything  you  could." 

"Yessir."  Woe  took  possession  of  Bealby. 
"I  didn't  do  any  'arm  to  the  ole   gentleman." 

"  But  who  told  you  ?  "  cried  the  Captain.  "  Who 
told  you?" 

Lord  Moggeridge  annihilated  him  with  arm 
and  eyebrows.  He  held  Bealby  fascinated  by  a 
pointing  finger. 

"Don't  do  more  than  answer  the  questions.  I 
have  thirty  seconds  more.  He  told  you  to  go  in. 
He  made  you  go  in.  At  the  earliest  possible 
opportunity  you  got  away?" 

"I  jest  nipped  out  —  " 

"Enough!  And  now,  sir,  how  dare  you  come 
here  without  even  a  plausible  lie?    How   dare 


280  BEALBY 

you  after  your  intolerable  tomfoolery  at  Shonts 
confront  me  again  with  fresh  tomfoolery?  How 
dare  you  drag  in  your  gallant  and  venerable 
uncle  in  this  last  preposterous  —  I  suppose  you 
would  call  it  —  lark !  I  suppose  you  had  prepared 
that  little  wretch  with  some  fine  story.  Little 
you  know  of  False  Witness !  At  the  first  ques- 
tion, he  breaks  down !  He  does  not  even  begin 
his  lie.  He  at  least  knows  the  difference  between 
my  standards  and  yours.     Candler!    Candler!" 

Candler  appeared. 

"These  —  these  gentlemen  are  going.  Is  every- 
thing ready?" 

"The  cab  is  at  the  door,  mlord.  The  usual 
cab." 

Captain  Douglas  made  one  last  desperate 
effort.     "Sir!"   he  said.     "My  lord  —  " 

The  Lord  Chancellor  turned  upon  him  with  a 
face  that  he  sought  to  keep  calm,  though  the  eye- 
brows waved  and  streamed  like  black  smoke  in  a 
gale.  "Captain  Douglas,"  he  said,  "you  are 
probably  not  aware  of  the  demands  upon  the 
time  and  patience  of  a  public  servant  in  such  a 
position  as  mine.  You  see  the  world  no  doubt 
as  a  vastly  entertaining  fabric  upon  which  you 
can  embroider  your  —  your  facetious  arrange- 
ments. Well,  it  is  not  so.  It  is  real.  It  is 
earnest.  You  may  sneer  at  the  simplicity  of  an 
old  man,  but  what  I  tell  you  of  life  is  true.  Comic 
effect  is  not,  believe  me,  its  goal.  And  you,  sir, 
you,  sir,  you  impress  me  as  an  intolerably  foolish, 
flippant  and  unnecessary  young  man.  Flippant. 
Unnecessary.    Foolish." 


HOW  BEALBY  EXPLAINED  281 

As  he  said  these  words  Candler  approached 
him  with  a  dust  coat  of  a  peculiar  fineness  and 
dignity,  and  he  uttered  the  last  words  over  his 
protruded  chest  while  Candler  assisted  his  arms 
into  his  sleeves. 

"My  lord/'  said  Captain  Douglas  again,  but 
his  resolution  was  deserting  him. 

"iVo/'  said  the  Lord  Chancellor,  leaning  for- 
ward in  a  minatory  manner  while  Candler  pulled 
down  the  tail  of  his  jacket  and  adjusted  the  collar 
of  his  overcoat. 

"Uncle/'  said  Captain  Douglas. 

^^No/^  said  the  general,  with  the  curt  decision 
of  a  soldier,  and  turned  exactly  ninety  degrees 
away  from  him.  "You  little  know  how  you  have 
hurt  me,  Alan !  You  little  know.  I  couldn't 
have  imagined  it.  The  Douglas  strain !  False 
Witness  —  and  insult.  I  am  sorry,  my  dear 
Moggeridge,  beyond  measure.'^ 

"I  quite  understand  —  you  are  as  much  a 
victim  as  myself.  Quite.  A  more  foolish 
attempt  —      I  am  sorry  to  be  in  this  hurry  — " 

"Oh!  You  damned  little  fool,"  said  the  Cap- 
tain, and  advanced  a  step  towards  the  perplexed 
and  shrinking  Bealby.  "You  imbecile  little 
trickster!     What  do  you  mean  by  it?" 

"I  didn't  mean  anything —  !" 

Then  suddenly  the  thought  of  Madeleine, 
sweet  and  overpowering,  came  into  the  head  of 
this  distraught  young  man.  He  hadrisked  losing 
her,  he  had  slighted  and  insulted  her,  and  here  he 
was  —  entangled.  Here  he  was  in  a  position 
of    nearly    inconceivable    foolishness,    about    to 


282  BEALBY 

assault  a  dirty  and  silly  little  boy  in  the  presence 
of  the  Lord  Chancellor  and  Uncle  Chickney. 
The  world,  he  felt,  was  lost,  and  not  well  lost. 
And  she  was  lost  too.  Even  now  while  he  pur- 
sued these  follies  she  might  be  consoling  her 
wounded  pride.   .  .  . 

He  perceived  that  love  is  the  supreme  thing 
in  life.  He  perceived  that  he  who  divides  his 
purposes  scatters  his  life  to  the  four  winds  of 
heaven.  A  vehement  resolve  to  cut  the  whole  of 
this  Bealby  business  pounced  upon  him.  In 
that  moment  he  ceased  to  care  for  reputation, 
for  appearances,  for  the  resentment  of  Lord 
Moggeridge  or  the  good  intentions  of  Uncle 
Chickney. 

He  turned,  he  rushed  out  of  the  room.  He 
escaped  by  unparalleled  gymnastics  the  worst 
consequences  of  an  encounter  with  the  Lord 
Chancellor's  bag  which  the  under-butler  had 
placed  rather  tactlessly  between  the  doors,  crossed 
the  wide  and  dignified  hall,  and  in  another  moment 
had  his  engine  going  and  was  struggling  to  mount 
his  machine  in  the  street  without.  His  face 
expressed  an  almost  apoplectic  concentration. 
He  narrowly  missed  the  noses  of  a  pair  of  horses 
in  the  carriage  of  Lady  Beach  Mandarin,  made 
an  extraordinary  curve  to  spare  a  fishmonger's 
tricycle,  shaved  the  front  and  completely  de- 
stroyed the  gesture  of  that  eminent  actor  manager, 
Mr.  Pomegranate,  who  was  crossing  the  road  in 
his  usual  inadvertent  fashion,  and  then  he  was 
popping  and  throbbing  and  banging  round  the 
corner  and  on  his  way  back  to  the  lovely  and 


HOW  BEALBY  EXPLAINED  283 

irresistible  woman  who  was  exerting  so  disastrous 
an  influence  upon  his  career.  .  .  . 

§8 

The  Captain  fled  from  London  in  the  utmost 
fury  and  to  the  general  danger  of  the  public. 
His  heart  was  full  of  wicked  blasphemies,  shout- 
ings and  self-reproaches,  but  outwardly  he  seemed 
only  pinkly  intent.  And  as  he  crossed  an  open 
breezy  common  and  passed  by  a  milestone  bear- 
ing this  inscription,  "To  London  Thirteen  Miles/' 
his  hind  tyre  burst  conclusively  with  a  massive 
report.  .  ,  . 

§9 

In  every  life  there  are  crucial  moments,  turning 
points,  and  not  infrequently  it  is  just  such  a 
thing  as  this,  a  report,  a  sudden  waking  in  the 
night,  a  flash  upon  the  road  to  Damascus,  that 
marks  and  precipitates  the  accumulating  new. 
Vehemence  is  not  concentration.  The  headlong 
violence  of  the  Captain  had  been  no  expression  of 
a  single-minded  purpose,  of  a  soul  all  gathered 
together  to  an  end.  Far  less  a  pursuit  had  it 
been  than  a  flight,  a  flight  from  his  own  dissen- 
sions.    And  now  —  now  he  was  held. 

After  he  had  attempted  a  few  plausible  repairs 
and  found  the  tyre  obdurate,  after  he  had  ad- 
dressed ill-chosen  remonstrances  to  some  un- 
named hearer,  after  he  had  walked  some  way 
along  the  road  and  back  in  an  indecision  about 
repair  shops  in  some  neighbouring  town,  the  last 


284  BEALBY 

dregs  of  his  resistance  were  spent.  He  perceived 
that  he  was  in  the  presence  of  a  Lesson.  He  sat 
down  by  the  roadside,  some  twenty  feet  from  the 
disabled  motor  bicycle  and,  impotent  for  further 
effort,  frankly  admitted  himself  overtaken.  He 
had  not  reckoned  with  punctures. 

Tht^'  pursuing  questions  came  clambering  upon 
him  and  would  no  longer  be  denied ;  who  he  was 
and  what  he  was  and  how  he  was,  and  the  meaning 
of  this  Rare  Bate  he  had  been  in,  and  all  those 
deep  questions  that  are  so  systematically  neg- 
lected in  the  haste  and  excitement  of  modern 
life. 

In  short,  for  the  first  time  in  many  headlong 
days  he  asked  himself  simply  and  plainly  what 
he  thought  he  was  up  to  ? 

Certain  things  became  clear,  and  so  minutely 
and  exactly  clear  that  it  was  incredible  that  they 
had  ever  for  a  moment  been  obscure.  Of  course 
Bealby  had  been  a  perfectly  honest  little  boy, 
under  some  sort  of  misconception,  and  of  course 
he  ought  to  have  been  carefully  coached  and 
prepared  and  rehearsed  before  he  was  put  before 
the  Lord  Chancellor.  This  was  so  manifest  now 
that  the  Captain  stared  aghast  at  his  own  incon- 
ceivable negligence.  But  the  mischief  was  done. 
Nothing  now  would  ever  propitiate  Moggeridge, 
nothing  now  would  ever  reconcile  Uncle  Chickney. 
That  was  —  settled.  But  what  was  not  settled 
was  the  amazing  disorder  of  his  own  mind.  Why 
had  he  been  so  negligent,  what  had  come  over 
his  mind  in  the  last  few  weeks  ? 

And  this  sudden  strange  illumination  of  the 


HOW  BEALBY  EXPLAINED  285 

Captain's  mind  went  so  far  as  perceiving  that 
the  really  important  concern  for  him  was  not 
the  accidents  of  Shonts  but  this  epilepsy  of  his 
own  will.  Why  now  was  he  rushing  back  to 
Madeleine?  Why?  He  did  not  love  her.  He 
knew  he  did  not  love  her.  On  the  whole,  more 
than  anything  else  he  resented  her. 

But  he  was  excited  about  her,  he  was  so  excited 
that  these  other  muddles,  fluctuations,  follies, 
came  as  a  natural  consequence  from  that.  Out 
of  this  excitement  came  those  wild  floods  of  angry 
energy  that  made  him  career  about  — 

"Like  some  damned  Cracker,'^  said  the  Captain. 

"For  instance,'^  he  asked  himself,  ^'now!  what 
am  I  going  for? 

"If  I  go  back  she'll  probably  behave  like  an 
offended  Queen.  Doesn't  seem  to  understand 
anything  that  does  not  focus  on  herself.  Wants  a 
sort  of  Limelight  Lover.  .  .  . 

"She  relies  upon  exciting  me! 

"  She  relies  upon  exciting  everyone  !  —  she's 
just  a  woman  specialized  for  excitement." 

And  after  meditating  through  a  profound 
minute  upon  this  judgment,  the  Captain  pro- 
nounced these  two  epoch-making  words :  "/ 
won't  r' 

§  10 

The  Captain's  mind  was  now  in  a  state  of 
almost  violent  lucidity. 

"This  sex  stuff,"  he  said ;  "first  I  kept  it  under 
too  tight  and  now  I've  let  it  rip  too  loose. 

"I've  been  just  a  distracted  fool,  with  my  head 


» 


286  BEALBY 

swimming  with  meetings  and  embraces  and  — 
frills/' 

He  produced  some  long  impending  generaliza- 
tions. 

"Not  a  man's  work,  this  Lover  business. 
Dancing  about  in  a  world  of  petticoats  and  pow- 
der puffs  and  attentions  and  jealousies.  Rotten 
game.     Played  off  against  some  other  man.  .  .  . 

"I'll  be  hanged  if  I  am.  ... 

"Have  to  put  women  in  their  places.  .  .  . 

"Make  a  hash  of  everything  if  we  don't.  . 

Then  for  a  time  the  Captain  meditated  in 
silence  and  chewed  his  knuckle.  His  face  dark- 
ened to  a  scowl.  He  swore  as  though  some 
thought  twisted  and  tormented  him.  "Let  some 
other  man  get  her !  Think  of  her  with  some 
other  man." 

"I  don't  care,"  he  said,  when  obviously  he  did. 
"  There's  other  women  in  the  world. 

"A  man  —  a  man  mustn't  care  for  that.  .  .  . 

"It's  this  or  that,"  said  the  Captain,  "any- 
how. ..." 

§11 

Suddenly  the  Captain's  mind  was  made  up 
and  done. 

He  arose  to  his  feet  and  his  face  was  firm  and 
tranquil  and  now  nearer  pallor  than  pink.  He 
left  his  bicycle  and  trailer  by  the  wayside  even  as 
Christian  left  his  burden.  He  asked  a  passing 
nurse-girl  the  way  to  the  nearest  railway  station, 
and  thither  he  went.  Incidentally,  and  because 
the   opportunity  offered,  he    called   in   upon   a 


yy 


HOW  BEALBY  EXPLAINED  287 

cyclist's  repair  shop  and  committed  his  abandoned 
machinery  to  its  keeping.  He  went  straight  to 
London,  changed  at  his  flat,  dined  at  his  club,  and 
caught  the  night  train  for  France  —  for  France 
and  whatever  was  left  of  the  grand  manoeuvres. 

He  wrote  a  letter  to  Madeleine  from  the  Est 
train  next  day,  using  their  customary  endearments, 
avoiding  any  discussion  of  their  relations  and 
describing  the  scenery  of  the  Seine  valley  and  the 
characteristics  of  Rouen  in  a  few  vivid  and  mas- 
terly phrases. 

"If   she's   worth   having,  she'll   understand, 
said  the  Captain,  but  he  knew  perfectly  well  she 
would  not  understand. 

Mrs.  Geedge  noted  this  letter  among  the  others, 
and  afterwards  she  was  much  exercised  by  Made- 
leine's behaviour.  For  suddenly  that  lady  be- 
came extraordinarily  gay  and  joyous  in  her  bear- 
ing, singing  snatches  of  song  and  bubbling  over 
with  suggestions  for  larks  and  picnics  and  wild 
excursions.  She  patted  Mr.  Geedge  on  the 
shoulder  and  ran  her  arm  through  the  arm  of 
Professor  Bowles.  Both  gentlemen  received  these 
familiarities  with  a  gawky  coyness  that  Mrs. 
Geedge  found  contemptible.  And  moreover 
Madeleine  drew  several  shy  strangers  into  their 
circle.  She  invited  the  management  to  a  happy 
participation. 

Her  great  idea  was  a  moonlight  picnic.  "We'll 
have  a  great  camp-fire  and  afterwards  we'll  dance 
—  this  very  night." 

"But  wouldn't  it  be  better  to-morrow?" 

"To-night!" 


288  BEALBY 

"To-morrow  perhaps  Captain  Douglas  may- 
be back  again.  And  he's  so  good  at  all  these 
things/' 

Mrs.  Geedge  knew  better  because  she  had  seen 
the  French  stamp  on  the  letter,  but  she  meant  to 
get  to  the  bottom  of  this  business,  and  thus  it 
was  she  said  this. 

"IVe  sent  him  back  to  his  soldiering,''  said 
Madeleine  serenely.  "He  has  better  things  to 
do." 

§12 

For  some  moments  after  the  unceremonious 
departure  of  Captain  Douglas  from  the  presence 
of  Lord  Moggeridge,  it  did  not  occur  to  anyone, 
it  did  not  occur  even  to  Bealby,  that  the  Captain 
had  left  his  witness  behind  him.  The  general 
and  the  Lord  Chancellor  moved  into  the  hall, 
and  Bealby,  under  the  sway  of  a  swift  compelling 
gesture  from  Candler,  followed  modestly.  The 
same  current  swept  them  all  out  into  the  portico, 
and  while  the  under-butler  whistled  up  a  hansom 
for  the  General,  the  Lord  Chancellor,  with  a  dig- 
nity that  was  at  once  polite  and  rapid,  and  Candler 
gravely  protective  and  little  reproving,  departed. 
Bealby,  slowly  apprehending  their  desertion,  re- 
garded the  world  of  London  with  perplexity  and 
dismay.  Candler  had  gone.  The  last  of  the 
gentlemen  was  going.  The  under-butler,  Bealby 
felt,  was  no  friend.     Under-butlers  never  are. 

Lord  Chickney  in  the  very  act  of  entering  his 
cab  had  his  coat-tail  tugged.  He  looked  en- 
quiringly. 


HOW  BEALBY  EXPLAINED  289 

"Please,  sir,  there's  me,"  said  Bealby. 

Lord  Chickney  reflected.     "Well?"  he  said. 

The  spirit  of  Bealby  was  now  greatly  abased. 
His  face  and  voice  betrayed  him  on  the  verge  of 
tears.     "I  want  to  go  'ome  to  Shonts,  sir." 

"Well,  my  boy,  go  'ome  —  go  home,  I  mean, 
to  Shonts." 

"'E's  gone,  sir,"  said  Bealby.  .  .  . 

Lord  Chickney  was  a  good-hearted  man,  and 
he  knew  that  a  certain  public  kindliness  and  dis- 
regard of  appearances  looks  far  better  and  is 
infinitely  more  popular  than  a  punctilious  dignity. 
He  took  Bealby  to  Waterloo  in  his  hansom,  got 
him  a  third  class  ticket  to  Chelsome,  tipped  a 
porter  to  see  him  safely  into  his  train  and  dis- 
missed him  in  the  most  fatherly  manner. 

§13 

It  was  well  after  tea-time,  Bealby  felt,  as  he 
came  once  more  within  the  boundaries  of  the 
Shonts  estate. 

It  was  a  wiser  and  a  graver  Bealby  who  returned 
from  this  week  of  miscellaneous  adventure.  He 
did  not  clearly  understand  all  that  had  happened 
to  him ;  in  particular  he  was  puzzled  by  the  ex- 
treme annoyance  and  sudden  departure  of  Captain 
Douglas  from  the  presence  of  Lord  Moggeridge ; 
but  his  general  impression  was  that  he  had  been 
in  great  peril  of  dire  punishment  and  that  he  had 
been  rather  hastily  and  ignominiously  reprieved. 
The  nice  old  gentleman  with  the  long  grey  mous- 
taches had  dismissed  him  to  the  train  at  last 


290  BEALBY 

with  a  quality  of  benediction.  But  Bealby 
understood  now  better  than  he  had  done  before 
that  adventures  do  not  always  turn  out  well 
for  the  boy  hero,  and  that  the  social  system  has 
a  number  of  dangerous  and  disagreeable  holes  at 
the  bottom.  He  had  reached  the  beginnings  of 
wisdom.  He  was  glad  he  had  got  away  from  the 
tramp  and  still  gladder  that  he  had  got  away  from 
Crayminster;  he  was  sorry  that  he  would  never 
see  the  beautiful  lady  again,  and  perplexed  and 
perplexed.  And  also  he  was  interested  in  the 
probability  of  his  mother  having  toast  for  tea.  .  .  . 

It  must,  he  felt,  be  a  long  time  after  tea-time, 
quite  late.  .  .  . 

He  had  weighed  the  advisability  of  returning 
quietly  to  his  windowless  bedroom  under  the 
stairs,  putting  on  his  little  green  apron  and 
emerging  with  a  dutiful  sang-froid  as  if  nothing 
had  happened,  on  the  one  hand,  or  of  going  to 
the  gardens  on  the  other.  But  tea  —  with 
eatables  —  seemed  more  probable  at  the  gar- 
dens. .  .  . 

He  was  deflected  from  the  direct  route  across 
the  park  by  a  long  deep  trench,  that  someone  had 
made  and  abandoned  since  the  previous  Sunday 
morning.  He  wondered  what  it  was  for.  It  was 
certainly  very  ugly.  And  as  he  came  out  by  the 
trees  and  got  the  full  effect  of  the  fagade,  he 
detected  a  strangely  bandaged  quality  about 
Shonts.  It  was  as  if  Shonts  had  recently  been  in 
a  fight  and  got  a  black  eye.  Then  he  saw  the 
reason  for  this ;  one  tower  was  swathed  in  scaf- 
folding.   He  wondered  what  could  have  happened 


HOW  BEALBY  EXPLAINED  291 

to  the  tower.  Then  his  own  troubles  resumed 
their  sway. 

He  was  so  fortunate  as  not  to  meet  his  father 
in  the  gardens,  and  he  entered  the  house  so  meekly 
that  his  mother  did  not  look  up  from  the  cash- 
mere she  was  sewing.  She  was  sitting  at  the 
table  sewing  some  newly  dyed  black  cashmere. 

He  was  astonished  at  her  extreme  pallor  and 
the  drooping  resignation  of  her  pose. 

"Mother !''  he  said,  and  she  looked  up  convul- 
sively and  stared,  stared  with  bright  round 
astonished  eyes. 

"I'm  sorry,  mother,  I  'aven't  been  quite  a  good 
steward's-room  boy,  mother.  If  I  could  'ave 
another  go,  mother.  .  .  .'' 

He  halted  for  a  moment,  astonished  that  she 
said  nothing,  but  only  sat  with  that  strange  ex- 
pression and  opened  and  shut  her  mouth. 

"Eeely  —  I'd  try,  mother.  .  .  ." 


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